


when to my soul, the body would say

by smithens



Series: you will not take my heart, alive [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1920s, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Hotel Sex, I Love You, Intercrural Sex, Light Dom/sub, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mirror Sex, Multiple Sex Positions, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pillow Talk, Poetry, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Secret Relationship, Tender Sex, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 83,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: In January, 1929, they meet for two days in Corby, Lincolnshire, a village Thomas had never heard of before finding it in the passenger services pamphlet — there's a railway station, some churches, and not much else, if you don't count farmland.It rains the whole time.It's perfect.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: you will not take my heart, alive [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589362
Comments: 170
Kudos: 250





	1. three nights

**Author's Note:**

> DIDN'T I SAY TWO MONTHS AGO THERE WERE GOING TO BE PORN OUTTAKES????????? DIDN'T I SAY??? I DID NOT FORGET!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> this fic is not going to make sense if you haven't read [you will not take my heart, alive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885519/chapters/49644860), but it's porn, so that might not matter to you.

## EPIPHANY, 1929

* * *

"Good day, sir, I telephoned yesterday about lodging for my colleague and I. Name's Evelyn Price."

Evelyn Price is apparently an educated man from the West Country.

In light of this information, Thomas is going to keep his damn mouth shut.

"Mr Price, is it — erm, yeah, I do remember."

"Still rooms available, surely?" 

"Most all of 'em — you'll be wanting one or two?"

Richard turns back to face him: "what do you say, Harris, can you cope with sharing a room?" — like it's the most ridiculous suggestion in the world. Thomas startles, but it was for show, anyway; Richard is back around to the innkeeper as soon as he says it. "Er, you know what, probably ought to be just one, now I think of it. They're rather stingy with the allowance these days."

"That I can do, that I can do. Well, sir, might I ask what's it brings you to Corby?"

"Nearest mainline station to Grimsthorpe Castle," says Richard. He doesn't even miss a beat.

"You've got business at Grimsthorpe, eh?"

Richard starts to rifle through his briefcase.

"With the farmers — resolved it this morning, two days ahead of schedule, might I add, rather thought Christmas might get in the way of it — His Lordship the Earl of Ancaster is very gracious, of course, but one can hardly expect a peer to put up a couple of civil servants, can he?"

"Er, wouldn't think, no."

"No, indeed. Only here for a stopover, plenty of paperwork to finish before we head on to Denton Hall, and Corby's as good a place as any."

"Lived here all me life, Mr Price." 

"Have you? Seems a nice little village, though if this blasted rain keeps up I doubt we'll be outside before we're off, sorry to say it. Might be better that way, actually, there's reports that need writing."

He's talking a mile a minute, but it's so convincing Thomas could almost believe it himself — he's got a talent for more than prank calls, apparently.

"Time of year for rain like this, it is."

"Bloody cold, too, last survey I did was in July. Tell you what, it's a damn pity a man can't take a secretary with him on these things, those girls are a help in more ways than one."

They laugh, the innkeeper a bit more raucously. Thomas does his best not to stare.

"'Course, my wife'd murder me, so I suppose it's for the best in the end. Anyhow, here's for three nights in advance, if the rate's as you quoted?"

"Certainly, Mr Price," and he just hands over a key, nothing to sign or anything.

The rooms are numbered, too, with little wooden plaques on the walls, and theirs is at the end of a hall on the upper floor.

" _Evelyn Price_ — you could be in the fucking talkies, you know that?" Thomas says, incredulous, once they're in with the door locked. He takes off his overcoat and hat, helps Richard do the same. Everything's rather damp, it really is pouring, but there are plenty of places to hang things, so hopefully they dry up all right.

"Someone I work with."

"Someone you _work with."_

"Figured I ought to learn from my past mistakes, given what happened in York — queer story, that, had to swoop in and rescue someone who'd gotten himself into a spot of trouble — "

Eager to interrupt, Thomas grabs him by the lapels and starts kissing him.

"— when I wasn't prepared to put on a show," Richard says once they've broken apart. He's cocky as ever but breathing heavy already, and it's been so long since they've touched that Thomas only has a moment to breathe before Richard's on him himself.

And hell if he hasn't missed this, if he hasn't thought of it every night since last summer, Richard's hand on his cheek and his lips on his own — if he's especially excited the thought of a kiss alone is enough to get him off, and going by how quick Richard was in London he gets the idea that he could do the same.

"Did you think of me," he breathes, as Richard moves his hand to his neck and his mouth to his jaw, "I've thought of you — " 

He parts from Richard just enough that he can push his suit jacket off his shoulders, and then he gets on with unbuttoning his waistcoat. This never used to be especially arousing with anyone else; it's a work task, or at least it used to be, but with Richard it's foreplay, undressing each other, though neither of them are immune to falling into old habits — learned that in London. That said, the urge to get his clothes off of him is greater than the urge to fold and hang them like they're those of an aristocrat, so they just end up on the floor.

" — every bloody night I think of you, Richard Ellis," he says. Richard is grinning and self-satisfied, but he's also flushed in the face and breathing hard already. Thomas thinks, _I made you like this and I did it in less than five minutes, too._

He goes to take off his necktie but 'accidentally' slips his fingers between the buttons on his shirt placket, tugs a little at the flannel of his undershirt. His reward for this mistake is a soft hum. He's almost careless with the tie as a result, just wants Richard nude and in bed with him as soon as they can manage it, but something in the back of his mind doesn't let him, like it's contrary to his being to let a damn thread rip, so he takes it slow and intentional instead.

Turns out to be a good choice.

"Don't tease," says Richard, but he's clearly enjoying it, and it seems like he's figured out what made him hesitate, too.

"Don't be worth teasing," Thomas replies with a smile. He gives in, though, unknots it properly and just lets it fall, which is only slightly less of an affront to his domestic side than taking a damn tie off the wrong way.

Richard, who is extremely attractive in his shirtsleeves, stops him before he tries to go on with his braces and trousers. "My turn."

"Oh?" but Richard's already got his jacket off of him, which he begins to neatly set aside — 

"Blimey are we incurable," says Thomas, laughing, and Richard just drops it, and then they're kissing again. Even thus occupied, Richard is adept at unfastening his buttons one-handed, though he has to adjust to get his tie undone. Fortunately this just means he kisses his jaw instead of his mouth, and Thomas sighs. 

Richard's nicer than he was, hasty but efficient, and he has to wonder what's coming after this if he's holding back on playing around now.

He beats him to the next thing, too, fumbles to unbutton the back of his braces without seeing them — "oh, so we're not trading off, then," says Thomas into his ear. It's meant to be in jest, but Richard's breath hitches like it was risqué. 

Well, he's not opposed to that.

His wondering is answered when Richard sticks two fingers under the center-back waistband of his trousers and starts to inch his hand lower.

"Someone's impatient," he adds, same tone as before, and maybe it's just the whispering into his ear that does it for him, because Richard stops breathing again.

Thomas is sure that on his end of things, Richard could do anything and he'd be head over heels for it, but this sort of mood they're in, the yearning for each other because it's been seven damn months since either of them have had anything other than their own hands, that's definitely warming him up, so to speak.

He lets Richard take his trousers off, and his shirt, but when he gets to what's underneath — he's in long knits, because it's bloody freezing outside, but they're not exactly convenient for this activity nor attractive — he takes his wrist and stops him. "I think I'd like it to be my turn again, actually."

"Oh, you would, would you?"

"You say that like you didn't bloody well enjoy it — "

Richard laughs, puts his hands up in surrender; Thomas pecks him on the lips before getting back to work. He goes the other way around than he did, top first, because this allows him to put his hands on his chest and slip them under both his shirt and his braces, move his hands down along to his waist, just feeling him through his undershirt.

"Missed you," he says, a murmur, almost to himself more than Richard, because it's true and it's a wonder that he has, that he can miss someone who misses him, too.

"You, too," comes the reply, equally soft, then a slow inhale and exhale, like he has to remind himself to breathe.

They meet eyes, and now Thomas is the one who isn't breathing.

A moment can't last forever, though. He quits lingering and gets Richard out of his trousers.

For efficiency's sake, they take care of their own underwear, and then it hits them both that they're naked and freezing in an inn in the middle of nowhere with buckets of rain pouring outside and they didn't even bother turning on a light or down a bed before jumping each other — everything about the situation is unbelievable, but it's real, they're here.

The curtain is only part way drawn, window closed, but with the rain and fog, they can't see out and no one can see in. It gives everything a bit of a gray cast, but it's nice, somehow, calming.

Daylight is coming to an end.

Richard just sort of laughs in disbelief, and Thomas loops his arms around his neck and kisses him again.

"Ought've known this would happen."

It did the first time, after all, but unlike their last meeting it's evening instead of mid-day and they've got both a sufficient alibi and no reason at all to leave this inn, so they can do whatever they damn well please as long as they're quiet.

"Bed?"

"Mm."

Thomas turns it down while Richard just sits on the foot of it — they're both doubles this time, bit more ordinary, lucky for them — and then once it's manageable he sits, himself, lays his hands on the backs of Richard's shoulders. He's keeping his left covered, for now, but he gets the sense Richard won't pry until he gets a go ahead, which is something Thomas isn't ready to give just yet. (He's not sure which would be more uncomfortable for someone else, in this scenario, glove on or off.)

With his right he brushes his fingers along Richard's arm, reaches around to touch his collar, his chest, his nipples, his sternum, and then just holds him in half of an embrace, chest to back.

"Cooled off?"

"Don't want to be over before we've started, do we?"

Richard huffs, indignant, but if Thomas knows him he's smiling.

"If that concerns you, Mr Barrow, perhaps I ought to have you first."

_Christ._

"Wouldn't stop you," he says, and he's trying to be nonchalant, but his heart is pounding again. Richard's been able to see right through him since the day they met, though, and it's unlikely he'll lose the ability now.

Somehow, they get themselves horizontal from there, him on his back, Richard propped beside and above him, everything below the hips under the duvet, legs entwined as much as they can be. Warmer that way.

And then he's just touching him, slow, exploratory, from his shoulders down to below his navel, drawing his fingertips along through the hair on his chest and brushing his nipples with his thumb. It's nice, of course, but it's mild, keeps him going just enough.

_Cooled off yourself?_

"Change much since July?" is what Thomas actually says, and he smiles at him.

He gets a smile in return.

"Not especially."

"Good, was worried I might've."

It's a joke, but it's also true.

Richard touches his pointer finger to Thomas's lips, touches his own.

He looks up at him, looks at his eyes and his brows and his nose and his lips and his hair and his face, all of him, so that when these two days are over he has a more recent memory to think back to — how Richard looks when Thomas is underneath him.

"I — I love you," he says, faltering. That's true, too, but he hadn't meant to say it just then. He's not certain he has before, thinks he'd remember, if he had. It's only been about a year and a half that they've known each other, but it all _fits_ , like they were meant to come together in just this way, just so. Right place, right time, right people.

For a moment Richard only looks at him, face unreadable, and _please tell me you feel the same, please tell me I haven't made all of this up, please tell me that's why I came here, please tell me those words won't come back to bite me_ , but then he's got his mouth at the crook of Thomas's neck — "I love you, too," between kisses.

If this is cooled off, he has no idea what warm is.

Thomas presses his head back into the pillow and closes his eyes.

"I haven't stopped thinking of you since King's Cross," Richard says eventually, all soft, and whether that's meant to be an answer to his question from earlier or just something to get him going again, it doesn't matter, because it suits both purposes. He shifts his weight, seems to end up lying beside him more than hovering above him, and Thomas is disappointed until he feels his hand settle upon his hip: palm at the join of his leg and torso, fingers light against his thigh.

Close, but not quite.

Richard knows exactly what he's doing, doesn't he.

"Penny for your thoughts," Thomas replies. He's doing his best to maintain his composure, but with the way things are going he's not going to be able to keep it up for long.

"Keep it." Richard's kissing his neck again, then the front of his shoulder, but he leaves his hand where it is and Thomas has to fight with himself not to twist toward him. "I should like to hear yours, actually."

"Would you, Mr Ellis?"

"Must have plenty, if you have 'em every night," he says, a murmur into his ear this time, and he'd thought it was charming of Richard to be into that but now that it's being done to him it's undeniably affecting. He opens his eyes only to squeeze them shut again; Richard's stroking his thigh in a manner he's pretty sure is meant to be reminiscent of something else. "Or is it the same every time — "

"Not always," gasps Thomas, because he's finally actually touched him, and he probably hasn't been waiting very long in reality but it's felt like ages and ages in his head, "the same, blimey — "

He doesn't know how he got so good with his hands. Frankly, he doesn't care to, either; it'd only make him jealous — he's not about to share how he got so good with his mouth for much the same reason — but however it happened, he is _grateful_ that he is benefiting from that practise now.

"Imaginative, are you?"

"If I like," Thomas says, and Richard wraps his hand all the way around his prick and strokes, gentle and _too slow._ Heat curls low in his belly; Thomas presses his hips up toward him and moans. 

"Must be."

" — _bloody hell_ , Richard, kiss me why don't you," _so I don't run my damn mouth_.

Richard does, close-mouthed, and Thomas can feel his smile against his lips.

"Tell me?"

It sounds like an actual question. Thomas opens his eyes; Richard is gazing at him, lips parted. He's stilled, and Thomas can't stop himself from bucking his hips again.

"What, do I have the option not to?"

He intends it to be a jibe, but Richard frowns, stops touching him entirely. "You always do — "

God, _that's_ the opposite of what he wanted.

"Not about to take it, Mr Ellis, only checking if it's there." He's flirtatious again, has to be. They've come up against something, here, but whatever it is, dealing with what it entails isn't something either of them are up for at the moment.

Thomas realises he's tensed up in the last few moments and relaxes back into the pillow. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

It's like every time they start something, without fail, there's a snag in it, but he wants so badly for these two days to be different from the last time and the time before that, for all the creases to be ironed out and all the loose threads snipped. He just wants _them_ , together, no interruptions from themselves or others.

He breathes.

"Should I just — what, you want me just to say things?"

It's dark enough now that he can't quite see if there's color to Richard's cheeks, but his mind is filling in the blanks for him.

"Like I _said things_ to you last summer, if you remember."

Oh, he's definitely not forgotten. He'd been very proud of himself after that, and it seems like Richard's amused now — same feeling, a reverse of circumstances.

"Are you going to touch me again?"

"I don't recall you touching me, actually —"

Thomas laughs. "Maybe then I was trying to be _respectful,_ seeing as you're so hasty to get exci—"

Richard kisses him. 

He adjusts, again, so that he's lying with his head upon Thomas's chest and shoulder, ankles at his calves because they're both about six feet tall and need to curl up to be comfortable, one hand up under him (is _that_ comfortable?) and one between his legs, _close but not quite_. 

"Well, then, Mr Barrow," says Richard, head tilted, lips nearly against his jaw, "when you think of me, what do you think of?"

Thomas hums. 

Thinking is not an easy task when the man you're in love with has his fingers only an inch away from your prick.

"London, mostly."

"Mostly."

"It's all we have, isn't it," all they've got that's sure, all they've got where they knew the score, all they've got where they had room to breathe, and doesn't that make a difference, isn't that so much nicer to think about, "all we have that's..."

He wishes either of them had had the guts to get more out of that last night in Downton, though, to make it _mean_ more — would've saved him from his nerves the next morning.

Or made them about a hundred times worse.

"Yeah," says Richard. He understands. "Until now."

"Until now."

"Plenty of memories to make."

Feeling useless, Thomas strokes down along his back, stopping at his hip, thoroughly enjoying the way he shivers. He says, "Merry Christmas," and Richard laughs.

"I think it's Epiphany now, officially."

"Do I _look_ like I care?" Thomas returns, almost irritated but mostly just teasing. He shifts to bring his hand to the top of his thigh, then inward.

Richard hums. "Tell me about London," he says, voice like velvet, but there's breath in it that there wasn't before, and it makes Thomas proud and smug and wanting. He won't give in just yet, he decides, not when he doesn't have to, and he moves his hand up to Richard's back again and rests it there, gentle. His skin is warm and soft, his body firm, muscled, and even just touching him is driving Thomas mad.

That and the fact that he's on top of him, which helps.

"What, you haven't been?"

"Thomas, you are insufferable – " 

But he says it like it's a good thing, and then he pulls away and adjusts — Thomas rues that he has to move his hand to allow it — only to come right back and press fervent kisses to his neck again, and then lower to his collar, where his mouth opens and his lips seal against his skin, and _this is not going to help him speak,_ bloody _hell_ —

"I think about your hands," he gasps, yielding, and Richard takes the hint and strokes him behind and under his cock, doesn't lapse in sucking at the base of his neck in the meanwhile.

Richard laughs, a vibration upon his skin. "What about them?" And then he's on him again.

"You're so fucking good with your hands."

He wraps his palm around him then, and again Thomas feels breathless and hazy. It's been months, months alone with his only his memory and imagination to get him by, but now they're here and they're together and he probably shouldn't have teased about Richard being quick because Thomas is _rapidly_ on his way to hypocrisy where that's concerned — he slides his leg up along Richard's, then lets his knee fall to the side, open.

 _Say something again so he doesn't stop,_ he tells himself.

"God, I – I think about your fingers inside me – _fuck – "_

Because apparently Richard is taking his words as bloody _instructions_ — he doesn't go far, they're not prepared for that, but he presses two fingers around his rim and the suggestion is _there._

Thomas squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers, and he feels self-conscious, awkward and timid, but he wants this so desperately it hardly matters.

Richard again breaks from his kiss — or whatever you'd call it. His neck is tingling; Thomas suspects he's going to have a bruise there in the morning, and the thought of that combined with the gentle, insistent touch between his legs makes him whine.

It is not, he thinks, a very becoming sound, but Richard hums like it means something. "Go on," he says, coaxing.

"Not going to last if I do," Thomas manages. He thrusts up against Richard's palm, needy, and it's as though every next touch could be the one that brings him over the edge.

He really turned the tables there.

"That's why we've got three nights, Mr Barrow."

 _God, God, God,_ this is _everything;_ how is he so _composed —_

Thomas swallows, takes a deep breath, tenses his legs as though it'll actually do anything to keep him going.

"When you held me to the wall," he says, already hoarse, and he'd thought that might be safe given that they're lying down, but Richard presses down on his shoulder with his free hand and kisses the base of his neck some more, insistent. "And you kissed me, and I – sometimes I think about if you'd had me, what that would – "

And Richard strokes the length of his prick, presses his thumb to the tip and fondles him with his fingertips, delicately.

He repeats, "three nights," and that does it; sensation builds in his entire body: the warm, familiar coil of arousal in his belly, a sudden tension in his thighs, pressure and heat in his groin.

Control utterly and completely lost, Thomas comes with a moan, the sound of himself this time erotic to his own ears. Richard works him through it, insistent, like he's easing it out of him, and Thomas thrusts more into his hand and presses his head back upon the pillow, arcing into the touch.

For a long, lovely moment, all he sees is the fireworks behind his eyelids.

Deep breaths, in and out — Richard's intuition with this is impressive, he'd stopped touching him at just the perfect time, but he's so unused to having someone else that he feels like he'll never recover.

"You're going to bloody kill me," Thomas murmurs. 

"Not to worry, Mr Barrow," Richard says, "I think you'll enjoy it," and then they're kissing again, slow and languid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if mary gets to have a week in a hotel with nothing to do but have sex i think thomas deserves two days, am i right
> 
> anyway there's two more chapters of this coming! <3


	2. courting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings/notes:** cutesy bullshit ft. 1920s vocabulary, nicknames, and teasing; implied/referenced homophobia; various forms of anal sex.
> 
> the sex vocabulary is proving difficult; i hope it's unnoticeable and not glaring, etc! this chapter... extremely got away from me, so i've split it into two.

"You're at your sweetest after courting," Richard tells him, and affronted though Thomas is at the accusation — he's not sweet to begin with, no need for superlatives — he doesn't have the motivation to argue. He only rubs his cheek against Richard's shoulder where his head lays, nuzzles his neck with a sigh that slips out of him unintentionally.

Richard keeps on rubbing circles into his back, gentle. 

They're both satisfied; they've freshened up and settled after what Thomas is tentatively going to call _round one,_ and this, lying in his arms, is almost as nice as that was.

Almost.

"I like it," Richard adds some minutes later. "You all meek and mild," and that Thomas _will_ protest, but before he can even open his mouth Richard is stroking at his side with his knuckles, insistent, and –

He flinches, and then he can't breathe for laughing. "Stop, stop, bloody hell, I – "

He stops. "I knew it," and there's a smile in his voice.

Thomas shifts his weight and buries his face into Richard's neck. "Don't _do_ that."

"See, if I'd tried that at any other time – "

"Mmph," Thomas says, and though he's not about to sign a confession to it or anything he does sort of get the picture. _You win, I'm docile after sex, so what._

"Been wondering if you were ticklish."

God, this is not what he signed up for, but he can't help but laugh — softly, this time, because it isn't being _forced out of him,_ not that he actually minds all that much. "Now you do, so you're welcome." He's still sort of cringing; he doesn't know what's coming, but Richard laughs, soft. 

"Thank you kindly, Mr Barrow — when was the last time anyone pulled that on you?"

"Assaulted me, you mean?"

"If that's how you like to put it."

"Don't remember." He can't. "Years, probably."

Richard kisses the side of his head and returns to rubbing his back the normal way. "Get to see you like no one else does, don't I."

And there's a thought. 

He really is closer to him than he's ever been before to anyone, and they haven't even known each other two years.

"Whether that's sweet or otherwise," Richard adds, and Thomas grumbles, "otherwise," drawing his legs up such that he's curled around him, head on his chest, heartbeat in his ears.

He wishes they could stay like this forever.

Thomas closes his eyes.

"You need a nap?"

"No."

"Might be nice," says Richard, blithe and nonchalant.

"I don't."

"Are you being contrary because I called you sweet?"

"No," he insists, but he probably is, if he's honest. He could do with a rest; the train exhausted him for some reason, though in his favour… it's getting late. He doesn't want to ruin his sleeping habits for the next month and a half, and he will if he gets any now.

Even if it's tempting.

"No shame in it, Thomas, it's for my eyes only."

"For your eyes only," Thomas repeats, a murmur into his chest. "I s'pose that changes things, doesn't it." 

"Does it?"

"Well, you just said it did," he says dryly, and Richard kisses his head again. "And – "

"Yeah?"

"I love you," says Thomas, suddenly dizzy, his head heavy. "I –"

For the first time in months Thomas is genuinely satisfied, and the press of Richard's hand on his back is soothing, as is the steady slow pulse of his heartbeat. It's doing something to him. A few years ago he might have called exactly what that something is _making him stupid,_ but he doesn't feel stupid so much as he feels —

He feels absurd. He feels absurd and silly and foolish and soft and warm and comfortable and loved and _safe,_ and maybe he shouldn't feel safe here, he knows where they are and what's at stake, but he's in the warm embrace of someone he loves — someone who _loves him_ — and he can't help but feel like he is.

It's a foreign feeling, that. Safety.

He's not even sure he felt safe with Richard this past summer, but he does now.

Soppy, Thomas finishes his thought aloud with, "I - I'm yours," and then Richard goes and bloody ruins _everything —_

"My silly boy."

"I take it back," Thomas retorts, grimacing, and Richard is laughing, "forget everything I just said – "

But he hoists himself up off of Richard's chest and then goes down again to kiss him, to shut him up.

That's the only reason, of course, making him be quiet.

"I love you," he repeats once they've parted.

Richard smiles.

"I love you, too."

"Never call me that again," Thomas says, but he can't help but smile back as he does, and something in the back of his mind is telling him that maybe he'd be sorry if Richard took him up on that.

What the hell is wrong with him.

Richard turns his head to the side, his lips pressed together like he's trying not to laugh.

Thomas, now kneeling over him, kisses his cheek.

"I think that was when I decided to go after you," Richard says slowly. He's smiling, but it's less cheeky, just kind and fond. "Not to say I weren't already after you, but that – you walking out of the police station and opening your damn mouth, that was when I knew I ought to keep at it."

That's something, at least. 

Unsure of where this is going, Thomas waits for him to continue, bated.

But Richard doesn't, and eventually Thomas says, "I was terrified, you know." 

Because he was. He still remembers that night like it was yesterday — the bad parts more than the good ones, too. That's the worst part, is the bad things are always, always more memorable, no matter how hard he tries in the moment to commit the good ones to memory.

"Yeah, and you had good reason to be, but I thought you were remarkable all the same."

"Remarkable," Thomas mutters. He's still sheepish and wincing on the inside. "Remarkable how."

"Well, Thomas," Richard says with a laugh, bordering on exasperated, "you had just been arrested for incredibly foolhardy behaviour – yes, I _know_ we've talked about this, don't make that face – "

"I'm not _making a face –_ "

" – and you walked out of there, and there I was, by all rights an absolute stranger to you, and you looked like a lost puppy and you said _that,_ and I thought – "

"A lost puppy, are you bloody – "

"I thought, just as I've just said, I thought, this man is _remarkable_ – "

Thomas snorts. "Did you heck as like."

"Unbelievable, this man is – "

" _You're_ unbelievable – "

"Didn't know they made 'em like that – "

And then they're kissing again, intent. Thomas puts his hand on Richard's cheek; Richard returns the gesture.

"God, you're all smiles, aren't you," Thomas says as they finish, because it's true and it's astounding, really, that someone could look at him that way, that someone could have that much happiness in him. Even more that it seems to be rubbing off, too.

No one else has ever made him feel like this one can, that's for sure.

"Got things to smile about."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Richard replies, tilting his chin up, and Thomas kisses it before speaking.

"Like what?"

"I'm afraid I've just been told not to say."

Thomas swats at him before moving to lie beside him, shoulders touching.

He says nothing; he doesn't know what to say that won't be too much of something, too honest or too vulnerable or too foolish, but Richard keeps silent, too. 

Outside the rain is still coming down in sheets, and after a while of listening to it Thomas realises he has no idea how freely they'll be able to speak, let alone do anything else, when the barrage lets up and there's no noise to drown them out. 

They'll have to prop open a window at some point, too, air the room, that's a precaution they ought to take, and then there's the question of linens —

"You're on your way to het up all of a sudden."

Richard's rolled onto his side, supported by his elbow, looking down at him.

Thomas meets his eyes, then turns his gaze to the ceiling.

Not their fault the world hates them, is it.

"I," he says, and his voice is hoarse. "I was only thinking, we… feels like a different place, here, but – "

"Yeah," Richard murmurs. "Yeah, I know."

Funny how things can change in an instant.

Richard sets his palm on Thomas's chest, just at the lower end of his sternum, and for a long while again they're quiet, Richard's hand rising and falling with his breath, nothing of note but the rain.

It's fully dark now, in the room and out of it, but his eyes are accustomed already to what little light there is.

At some point — seconds or minutes, who knows — Richard hums aloud, all thoughtful.

After which he says nothing, and so Thomas pokes at him and says, "what?"

"Is it better or worse," Richard starts, serious, "if I tell you London was more dangerous than this is?"

It only takes a moment of consideration.

"Worse," Thomas says. 

Because if they're not safe in London… 

He closes his eyes and takes steadying breaths through his mouth; Richard starts rubbing circles into his chest, as before on his back. 

For some bloody reason it works.

Thomas looks at him again, at the crease in his brow and the turn in his lip, and is struck for what must be the hundredth time that it's genuine. That he's not being put on. 

He swallows. "You're happier here than there, though, I think."

Not to say he wasn't in London, but they shared more than they intended to back then, and it didn't exactly make for a dandy time as such.

"Yeah?"

"Only been a few hours," Thomas says, noncommittal, "but…"

He definitely is — less afraid, too, probably, without the Palace and all that comes with it looming on the other side of the river.

If only he could say the same for himself.

"I ought to quit that blasted job," Richard says suddenly, and Thomas lifts his head to look at him, surveying.

Weary is a good word for the look on his face.

"It's a wonder I haven't already been tossed out of the place," he adds, "carrying on like I do."

…that could refer to any number of things, couldn't it.

"Leave on your own terms," Thomas says, because that's true no matter what. "Don't let 'em sack you."

Or worse.

"Wasn't intending on that," Richard says, blithe and self-assured as ever. "I'll go when the time's right."

"How'll you know?"

"I will."

Thomas puts his hand on top of Richard's, his left one, still gloved, and squeezes. "How long've you wanted to, even?"

"Don't know," he returns, settling. He moves his arm out from his head so as to be lying down, but he leaves his hand where it is. "Years, if I'm honest."

He knows the feeling. 

"Glad I got to meet you first," Thomas murmurs. He intertwines their fingers, caresses the back of Richard's pointer finger with his thumb, and the affection is returned with a press around his knuckles.

No one ever holds this hand.

Richard tilts his wrist back and forth, playful. "You're the best thing I ever got out of it."

Thomas huffs, but his heart is racing; his protest is half-hearted. "Oi, come off." 

"And no mistake, Mr Barrow."

"Well," Thomas says. His voice is steadier than he expected it to be. "Don't suppose anyone else is about to rank me higher than the King of England, so I may as well take what I can get."

"You and him aren't in the same bracket to begin with," says Richard. He slips his hand away, flexes it, and Thomas lets his own fall to his side.

"Who'd've thought," he says dryly, and Richard sits up next to him on the bed. "You can't mean a butler's not in with the same lot as the King Emperor."

"I couldn't speak for the rest, but this one's in a better lot, in fact," and then Thomas finds himself being hoisted up by his elbows, not to his dissatisfaction.

They kiss, quick and closemouthed, playful; Thomas sits back at the side of his calves and raises his eyebrows.

He couldn't stop grinning if he tried.

"One of all his own," adds Richard nonchalantly, laying his palm on Thomas's neck with a hair more intention, "and he's mine, which makes a difference, doesn't it."

"I'm your butler, am I."

Richard laughs. "No," he says, cocky, and Thomas realises very suddenly that he has made a grave mistake. "No, you're my – "

He fixes it by kissing him again.

It's nice, being able to do this without feeling like the clock is ticking over their heads — it's not going to _last,_ Thomas knows, because they'll have to join the rest of the world again in a couple of days and he's certain that he himself is going to be frantic over that, but for tonight, and hopefully for most of tomorrow… it is nice. 

It's pretending. There are other threats than time.

But it's nice.

Thomas presses a quick kiss to his nose before he sits back again.

"Don't tease," he says, breathless.

"Don't be worth teasing."

Well.

He probably deserves that.

"If it bothers you that much," Richard starts, but Thomas shakes his head.

"Doesn't."

It makes him feel like an idiot, but it doesn't bother him.

Thomas adds, in his head-of-the-table voice, "I expect no complaints when I find something to call you."

"I'd have to say something stupid to be called first."

"Mr Ellis," Thomas says, still mock-serious, "you are very lucky I like you."

Richard smiles, wide and genuine. "I know."

And Thomas takes him by the shoulders and kisses him.

He doesn't know what it is about kissing him, what it is that gets him wondrous and wanting, but there _is_ something, and whatever it is unlike anything or anyone else he's ever had. And maybe it's nothing, maybe he's always felt this way with someone new, maybe it's plain old novelty. That would make sense.

It _does_ make sense, he just doesn't have much to compare this to, so how can he know?

Before Richard came along, he hadn't kissed anyone in years — or, not properly, at least. Fucking, but no kissing; that's what he'd settled for, after everything that happened and that he brought on himself.

And yet here they are. Thomas has his arms around another bloke, and they're kissing.

Very romantic.

This time it's Richard who breaks for air first, but they remain close; he sets his hand at the side of Thomas's head, threads his fingers in his hair and presses against his scalp. Thomas leans into the touch.

"I like you with your hair mussed," Richard says, breathless.

"Says you," returns Thomas.

Because Richard's hair, styled just so, takes effort to get resembling anything other than pristine, though he did manage an okay start earlier.

And he'll have another chance, which he is looking forward to.

"S'all part and parcel with our work, isn't it, looking presentable," and he moves his hand to the back of his head, then his neck, cradling.

God, is it pleasant.

"Not at work now," Thomas counters.

"And thank God for that."

Thomas beats him to it this time, gets the upper hand, and before he's even conscious of what he's doing he finds himself on top of Richard with his knee between his legs.

He raises his eyebrows.

"I am younger than you," Richard says pointedly, and Thomas laughs.

"By, what, a year and a half, was it?"

"There you have it."

He looks up at him with one of his small smiles, coy, and Thomas forgets how to breathe — _who gave you the right to look like that,_ he thinks, _and how much do I bloody owe them._

What he says out loud is, "what do you want with me, then, Mr Ellis," and as he shifts closer to him, their thighs touch. Before he can make a sound to answer or protest, Thomas kisses him again, if only briefly.

After he pulls away, Richard hums, turns his head for a moment, considering, and then he's back looking at him again with a devilish glint in his eye that makes Thomas feel like he could swoon. "With you or from you?" he asks.

Well.

Something to think about.

"Dealer's choice," he says slowly.

Richard puts his hands behind his head and raises his eyebrows. "Ent you the dealer?"

"Well, that answers the question, doesn't it," Thomas replies smoothly, "if I'm the dealer, you must want something _from_ me."

It's a stupid thing to say, but Richard seems to take kindly to it — he shifts his weight back and forth underneath him, says, "no need to smirk at me like that," in a way that only encourages Thomas to smirk more (not that he has much control over his facial expressions where he's concerned).

"Wouldn't dream of it," Thomas says, sarcastic, a little breathless, affected more in his head than his body. His mouth has gone dry; he licks at his lips. It's as though he can feel Richard staring at him.

"That leaves us with another question, Mr Barrow, doesn't it?" Richard asks, cocky, and _how_ he can still be cocky when a man's on top of him Thomas has no idea, because he'd been on the verge of falling apart at any given moment this summer during at least half of what they got up to.

He wants to see that again.

He is _going_ to see that again.

Can't let him have the upper hand the whole time, after all.

Thomas nods, mock-serious, an exaggerated display of consideration, and then he asks, "do you want me to fuck you?" 

And Richard makes a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and clearing his throat, and he's more embarrassed by having asked the question outright than he'd hoped he would be, but he can hardly stand down now — "because if that's what you want then – "

"Yes, Thomas, absolutely I want you to fuck me," Richard says, grinning.

God, he ought've thought this through, because now he's kneeling over him with his heart pounding and he has no idea where to actually start with this and besides that knows that if this is going to happen he's going to have to get out of bed first, which is not exactly appealing, but he's also so off-kilter by hearing him actually say something vulgar (not that it sounds vulgar when he says it) that what he has the mind to do first is kiss him.

So he does, leaning his weight forward with the front of his thigh pressing between his legs, gentle as he can manage.

"You going to be able to do that?" asks Richard once they've parted, eyebrows raised, and Thomas nods. He's getting some verve back in him; by the time they get to that point he'll be fine.

Or, he's fairly certain that he will be, at least, but they'll cross that bridge when they get to it.

Richard's next words are more hesitant, less challenging in tone. "Will you enjoy it?"

And that does give him pause.

Thomas looks away.

"Thomas."

"Not as much," he confesses. 

Richard reaches up to hold his cheek in his hand, and Thomas takes a deep breath.

This is not worth losing his head over.

"I can do both," Richard says lightly, carefully nonchalant, crafted. "I just happen to care for one more than the other."

"No," Thomas says, but it sounds weak. "I – I want to do this for you."

He does, in fact, very much so, but he's afraid of mucking it up somehow. 

"Have you before?"

"Been a while." 

"As in…"

"God, I don't know – years."

Seeing as all he'd really had in the years up until '27 was cruising, albeit with the odd visitor at Downton back when that was still happening, and he only ever did the same two things for the most part. 

"Probably about a decade," he adds, in the interest of full disclosure. "Er, maybe a bit more."

"Christ."

Shy, Thomas presses himself up and sits back on his heels, around Richard's knees.

"May as well be the first time, then," Richard says, under his breath, but not unkindly, at least.

"I want to," Thomas repeats.

Richard reaches down to set his hand on his thigh, squeezes his knee.

"Right," he says, "I'll take your word for it, shall I," and then he sits up and pecks Thomas on the cheek.

In the minutes that follow they turn on a lamp and rearrange the sheets; while Richard is in the washroom, Thomas retrieves the jar of vaseline — a new one and as of yet unopened, purchased at the chemist's in Downton alongside a host of other items for the downstairs aid kit because no way in hell was he going to make that purchase on its own when he knows what it's actually for — from his suitcase. Before long, he's once more kneeling above Richard, except this time he has feet near his thighs and his knees up, his prick flat to his belly, and Thomas has the first finger of his right hand inside of him and is slowly drawing it in and out, cautious like he might break if he does it wrong.

Maybe too cautious.

He's fairly sure he isn't quite where he needs to be just yet, but when he crooks his finger he's still rewarded with a gasp and thrust of the hips, so he must be close.

"Are you ready if I – "

"I've been ready for at least t'last five minutes," Richard says breathlessly, and Thomas laughs.

"You don't know what I was going to ask," he teases, and he moves his hand in circles, rubbing his knuckle around the rim of his entrance, pressing insistently where he knows he ought to be sensitive.

"I can guess, can't I, Mr Barrow – God, that's it," and Thomas smiles, because he's so pleased with himself he can't help it… this is different to the last time, different to London, different to Downton, different to their first go, when they were each nerve-wracked and desperate and making up for lost time; it's different and it's better.

He takes his time adding his middle finger, first pulling out to take more vaseline and then crossing them to enter him again, slow and intentional, and for a while they're both quiet, only the sounds of the act as he moves his fingers in and out in an unchanging rhythm. He's praying it feels good.

"That's it," Richard repeats, the last of that cocksure attitude falling away, "that's it, Thomas," and it's confirmation enough.

Carefully, Thomas uncrosses his fingers, bending them as he does so, and then as he gains courage he bends and straightens them with more intention, searching.

He feels and sees it happen all at once. It's the contact of his fingertips and Richard tensing around him, incredibly odd but pleasant all the same, the way he arcs his back and presses down with his hips.

"Wonderful, Thomas, love – "

 _You called me love,_ Thomas thinks, _you called me love you called me love;_ he thinks, _I don't know what the hell I'm doing, what am I doing,_ and at odds with what he's hearing and the conclusion he's just come to, suddenly unsure, asks, "is this all – "

" _Yes,_ this is all right," says Richard immediately. The words are practically whined.

Thomas can feel his heart beating in his ears.

"Just all right?"

He spreads his fingers, closes them again.

Richard clenches around him and shifts his hips in circles, a pressure against his hand. "Yeah, yeah, I…"

God, this is different than he's used to — he hasn't even done this to anyone in ages, let alone what he's _about_ to do, got used to taking it himself, and no one ever took too much time with him until the year before last. 

There's time for the taking here.

"Liar," Thomas says, and he grins, crosses and uncrosses his fingers again, over and over in different ways, pumps them in and out nail to knuckle. He knows what he likes on himself, at least, and hopefully that'll get him far.

By lamplight Richard shines, skin flushed, sweat beading on his brow and chest, hair wetted down both places. 

_I love you when you look like this, I love you with your perfect hair on its way to ruin and I love you hard and blushing all over, I love you at a loss for words, I love you coming apart, I love you,_ and he says those last three words out loud, "I love you," as he crooks his fingers, and Richard moans.

Like music to his ears.

"Can you," he starts, hesitant, "er, can you take one more?"

Richard's eyes squeeze shut, and for a moment Thomas is afraid he'll say no, because he doesn't know what he'll do if he does, but before he can panic over it Richard nods.

"Okay," Thomas says, and out of curiosity more than anything else he bends and parts his fingers as he slowly pulls them out of him; Richard gasps and tilts his head back and it's fucking _beautiful,_ but he's struck again by the fact that he's got no clue where he's going with this and pauses halfway — "er, I don't exactly know what I'm – "

"Thomas, for the love of God – "

 _Okay,_ he thinks, _all right,_ and he withdraws his fingers all the way, quickly.

As he does, Richard's hips jerk.

"You really want this," Thomas breathes, awestruck. He takes up more vaseline from the jar, a liberal amount; feeling dazed, he warms it in his fingers. "You really want me."

"Just you," Richard replies, "only you," and it seems as though he's straining to keep his voice even and affirming, his eyes open and watching.

Not watching, seeing.

Seeing him like no one else does, as he said.

In order to gather his bearings Thomas has to close his eyes, and it's like every other sense gets stronger for it: Richard's shallow breathing against the neverending patter of rain, the heady smell of his body, the touch of their legs and the slick over his fingers, the coil of arousal inside him, now present, not a bridge that needs crossing. His voice, breathless and uninhibited once more, saying "God, Thomas, don't make me beg for it," and on any other day or with any other person maybe he'd do the opposite of what was requested, because the thought is admittedly very appealing, but he won't, not here. Thomas opens his eyes and manoeuvres back into place, this time at the side of his legs. He presses a kiss to the top of Richard's knee, smiles when he laughs.

And then he reaches his hand under his thigh, brings three fingers — side by side, in a blade — to his entrance, presses lightly up against him.

Richard twists his hips and makes no sound, and he's got to be putting effort into that; that certainly wasn't the case a moment ago.

 _Not for long,_ Thomas thinks, _not if I can help it,_ and he tightens his fingers and enters him slowly.

At the second knuckle Richard breathes, "Mary Mother of God;" Thomas grins, pleased with himself, not that Richard is looking at his face anymore, and he parts his fingers in a triangle and then closes them, slow.

True to form, Richard whines, and Thomas shifts back and forth as his own cock twitches.

He desperately wants to hear more of that sound, because he's responsible for it, and the thought thrills him.

This in mind, he keeps going, and eventually, he gets his sea legs again.

So to speak.

"You'll be the death of me," Richard says, his eyes squeezed shut and his head pressed into the pillow, and Thomas could swear he feels the remainder of the blood in his head rush to his cock. He draws his fingers in and out, and though he keeps them closed now he can feel Richard forcing himself to stay relaxed each time he goes almost to his hand.

Forcing himself and failing — he's making little noises more often now, pressing his hips up with more vigour. Each time Thomas draws out almost to his fingertips he waits for Richard to try to get more of him, and each time it happens in seconds, him clenching his thighs and raising his hips and panting, wanting and desperate, and it's _Thomas_ he wants, and he's dizzy over it.

"I've heard that one before," he replies, almost as breathless — he'd said it in the summer, he remembers. "But you survived."

"Did then," Richard says, and then when he starts to speak again Thomas twists his hand and curls his fingers, and he stops to moan, thrusts in reverse until Thomas moves again and if he thinks too hard about how he's fucking himself on his fingers Thomas might bloody well come himself, "mighn't now."

"Guess we'll find out," Thomas says, and his voice is hoarse. He slips his left hand further underneath Richard's back and presses up, gentle, supporting.

Self-serving.

Impulsive, he leans forward and wraps his lips around the tip of his prick, already wet, tongues at him, and he hears half of a strangled wail and then out of the corner of his eye sees Richard holding a pillow over his face like it's a life vest and they're shipwrecked, his noises muffled.

He stops, sheepish; Richard shows his face, and though he's smiling he also looks to be on the verge of tears. 

In a good way.

"Selfish," he gasps, and though he did open his eyes they're closed again by the time the last sound is out of his mouth. "I thought you were going to fuck me." 

"I'm still going to," Thomas insists. He slows the movement of his fingers.

"Yeah," Richard says sharply, bucking his hips now, grinding onto his hand, "not if I come off early you're not."

And before he can say anything else, he adds, in what's probably the firmest voice he's capable of right now and even that's shaky, "you realise you've already sucked me today," and Thomas laughs again; he's _happy,_ they're doing this and he's happy. He's happy. He's in love.

"Maybe I like doing it," he retorts, lighthearted. This is unfair, he knows it, he's got far more in him to tease than Richard does, but far as he can tell they're both enjoying it.

Beside him, Richard's gripping the sheets with a tight fist. "Thomas, I _know_ you like doing it," he says, "and you're not to never have another chance – "

That's fair.

Thomas swallows, nervous and eager all in one. "Do you, er, is now – "

"For the love of God," Richard says again, sounding far more desperate this time, "please, now, yes – "

"Call me love again," Thomas murmurs, and after one last push of his fingers — Richard grits his teeth and moans and it's bloody perfect, he is bloody perfect and in no way whatsoever does Thomas deserve him — he pulls them out.

"Love," Richard breathes. He's still digging his heels into the mattress and ever-so-slightly rolling his hips into thin air.

Thomas has the impression he could tell him to do or say just about anything at the moment and he would.

He's keen to find out, but he's also keen to be a kind lover, so he'll keep that suspicion in his back pocket until they're ready for it to come in handy. Sometime in the next two-days-and-three-nights, perhaps.

What he does say is, "thank you, Richard," half joking and half embarrassingly sincere; he sits down and grabs the jar of vaseline again, then takes a deep breath.

"I," he starts, "I need to go slow at first."

"So do most blokes," Richard quips, and it succeeds in reminding him that he's hardly the first man in the world to ever do this, and that he's done it before. "But the worst comes to the worst I'll ride you."

"Fuck," Thomas breathes, because he goes straight to imagining it, Richard straddling him and moving up and down and it's so far out of the realm of how he normally thinks of him but it's still unbearably stirring, and Richard laughs.

It's motivation enough to ready himself for what he's about to do, and he doesn't realise quite how keyed up he is until the touch of his own hand makes him close his eyes and gasp.

 _Keep it the fuck together,_ he tells himself, _you are not going to be the one to ruin this, neither of you are going to bloody ruin this,_ and he repeats it in his head over and over.

Though hard and leaking and clearly at the end of his rope, Richard sits up to watch, and then to help; his hand is steady and efficient. It is almost too much, but only almost, and then it's over. For good measure or maybe just to drive Thomas mad, Richard takes more vaseline and starts fingering himself.

" – please," he says, with a smile and more theatricality than before.

Right, so it's to drive Thomas mad, then.

"Okay," Thomas says, because he's already aching and he gets the bloody picture, "okay, shall I…"

Richard, both pragmatic and increasingly desperate, beats him to it: "front or back?"

"Want to see you," he tells him, "so, er…"

They end up exactly where they started, Thomas between his knees; to say the least it's slow going, most of which is Thomas's own fault. But it's good for both of them, keeps things safe and comfortable, and he's sure they could both do with some of that.

Or it _would_ be, except that he hasn't actually done anything yet.

"Are you still sure?"

"Yeah," Thomas says, "yeah," and Richard, who evidently has the patience of a fucking saint, rubs at his arm and says "go on," and –

It was worth the wait if for no other reason than the face Richard makes as he enters him, eyes closed and lips parted, brow relaxed.

"Is this all right," he asks, like before, but different, because this time his whole body is on edge begging him to keep going, and he can't. Or he won't.

Richard closes his mouth and nods.

"'s perfect," he says.

For one thing, due to the nature of the word perfect is an encouraging description, and for another, Thomas is rather agreeing with him, so he holds his back with his left hand and supports himself at Richard's shoulder with his right to push in further; they gasp at the same time.

His grip tightens on his forearm.

"Does it hurt?" Thomas asks, wary, because now that he thinks of it he's surprised it hasn't yet.

Another nod.

"Should I – "

"Be easy, Thomas," Richard interrupts. His voice is soft in a way Thomas has never heard it before. "Both been through it, haven't we."

What he probably means by that is, _if you were me would you be quitting right about now,_ the answer to which is a resounding no. Not the bad kind of pain, then, probably, just getting used to it, and Thomas takes a deep breath and tries to get used to it himself, being in someone.

Whether it's intentional or not, Richard tenses around him, and he gasps again — he'd entirely forgotten what this felt like, and now here he is and it's something exquisite, the heat and pressure around him, even if only halfway. He bites at his lip and tries not to whine.

"Not near much as it could, either," breathes Richard, rolling his hips up as Thomas rubs at his back, still trying to take control over things himself, and it's almost too much, almost. "Did well, love."

"I try," Thomas says, but he can't be sarcastic when his heart is fluttering; _you called me love._

"Keep at it, then," Richard whispers, and he turns his head to the side and parts his knees just a bit more.

Thomas doesn't need to be told twice.

Still bracing himself, he eases in until their hips touch, and then he has to pause again because it's as though he's just come to terms with what they're doing, that Richard is underneath him and Thomas is _inside of him_ and they're holding each other and it's like nothing he's ever had. He finds himself rocking his hips back and forth without thinking, and there's Richard lifting his own, joining and parting — Thomas pulls himself forward, and they kiss, open-mouthed, overeager and messy.

If anyone were to ask, absolutely none of this is how he ordinarily likes it. As it happens, though, this is shaping up to be one of the best fucks of his life.

He can't speak, only gasps into Richard's mouth and whines, high-pitched but quiet; when the kiss finishes, Richard puts one hand on Thomas's head and his mouth to his shoulder, and then he's kissing his collarbone, intent and ceaseless, one spot then another and then the base of his neck. It almost stings, and his breathing turns to gasps and sighs that are far away from soundless. Thomas pushes into him as rhythmically as he can, a strange and intimate dance, and they keep time with one another naturally, as though there is no other option. He tries to keep track of what he's doing to make his body curve, to make him bite more sharply, when he squeezes his legs around Thomas's hips and when he doesn't. He's gentle, too, or at least he's trying to be, he _wants_ to be, because that _is_ how he likes it even if it isn't anything he's had in years, but there is a fire burning in him that he didn't know was there and it's getting harder and harder to resist.

He doesn't know how long it lasts, if it's seconds or minutes, but after a time he can feel tension building in him where it wasn't before.

Reluctantly and eagerly at once, Thomas quickens their pace. Richard breaks apart from him; his back curves upward, and Thomas presses kisses to his neck — tender and ordinary kisses, not like whatever the hell it is he just received, he's smarting — before reaching to take him in hand. Richard moans, and it's the best one of them yet.

"I'm close," Thomas says, low and deep without trying to be, almost voiceless. 

Within moments Richard is again taking charge: he grips his back and shoulders, presses up with his feet and knees and gets them to something resembling a seated position.Thomas is both too far gone in everything he's feeling and too interested in what's coming next to complain.

It isn't _riding,_ they're both upright, it's just Richard being very intentional about the angle he's getting.

And though he can barely keep his fucking eyes open it's the most attractive thing Thomas has seen in his life.

Thomas has a loose hold on his prick, his movements eased by the vaseline leftover on his fingers; he moves his hand up and down and turns it in the way he remembers Richard likes, wills himself not to lose control first, not when he doesn't know what's expected and allowed.

"Whenever you are," Richard says, in that soft and lovely voice from before, the words spilling from his throat and passing through the haze. His hands are firm upon Thomas's back, stable, supporting both of them. Thomas rolls his hips up against him, skin to skin; Richard seems to almost be moving in circles.

He's _so_ close, _so_ close, because again Richard is fucking himself and it's like Thomas is assisting, like he's the stable one and the more Richard loses himself — finally, finally loses himself, just like Thomas wanted — the more he's there for him, reliable, supporting.

"In," Thomas starts, but he can't finish the word for gasping, let alone the question.

"Yeah," breathes Richard, "yeah, love, that's it," same as before again, and with his left hand Thomas keeps his holding Richard close by his back and with his right he keeps stroking, swirling his thumb over the tip and splaying his fingers — Richard does the rest of the work still, rocking back and forth against him, and Thomas comes with a cry, his entire body pulsing. Soon after Richard follows, murmuring "Thomas, Thomas," and he strokes him through it best he can, and then they're only holding one another, tangled, relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by: gaysexpositions.guide. before you go there please be advised that it is very explicit and not illustrated (as in, it's photographic pornography). i know more than i ever thought i would want to about gay sex positions, but this just to say, as it is in my head (unfortunately, not necessarily as i described it) all of the various body orientations here are realistic and possible! on a similar note re: realism, hope no one reading this is turned off by lube. sorry not sorry.
> 
> charmingly, by the 1920s "courting" had a double meaning of both, what you probably think of when you hear the word courting, and, if context clues did not give it away, sex and foreplay. similar to making love, which only started to mean having sex around i believe the 1910s.
> 
> next chapter is shorter and has no sex in it.


	3. darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you found yourself thinking, "this is odd, smithens is writing a thomas/richard fic that hasn't yet mentioned the war and it's been more than ten thousand words," well, you'd be right, so here's this chapter that does that. also, when i said this wasn't going to have sex in it, i was making a statement based on the information available at the time, which was that this chapter did not have sex in it. surprise! it does now. i am very predictable. likewise, turning this & the last chapter into two chapters? useless. this is like 8k words and that is AFTER i moved like at least a third of it to the next chapter.
> 
> anyway you might have noticed there's no set number of chapters now. oh well.
> 
> **content warnings/notes:** war; abandonment issues; crying; schmoopiness; little a sex, as a treat.
> 
> this chapter happened so much i hope you people enjoy it because i just need to post it at this point.

From there they part, untangling themselves from one another only to come together again, and though Thomas is aware that in five minutes he is going to rue their embracing without mind for either their bodies or the bed, for now, it's what he needs.

The word leaves his mouth by accident. "Darling."

Richard, head on his chest, shifts such that he's almost looking up at him, but says nothing. He's bound to be far more uncomfortable than Thomas is, he realises, and they'll probably be getting up shortly for his sake.

Embarrassingly sentimental though it may be, Thomas cards his fingers through his damp and darkened hair.

"Darling," he repeats. "When we're in bed that's what I'm going to call you."

Somehow the idea is both absolutely absurd and the most romantic thing he's ever come up with in his life.

Not that there's very much competition in that category.

Richard hums. "Only in bed?" 

"Yeah."

"Can't expect you to be sweet everywhere, I suppose," Richard says. He laughs, makes to sit upright, and Thomas is unable to muster the will to protest because he's so delighted to see that the man is an absolute mess — and to add to that, smiling, quaint and contented, nothing ingenuine about it.

But he's probably more satisfied about the first thing.

"I finally fixed your fucking hair," he says, won't even defend himself over what's just been said to him because he's unable to keep from grinning over the idea that he took Richard apart and it _shows,_ and Richard laughs again, hearty.

He holds out his hand; Thomas takes it and hoists himself up. 

They sit side-by-side in comfortable silence until Thomas kisses his cheek and slides off the bed.

"Let me take care of you," he says, because that will distract him from how he feels, himself. (Very far away from clean.)

"And my hair?"

"Everything but," Thomas says irreverently, but he's smiling.

The room has an ensuite water closet and full washroom — the place is far more equipped than Thomas would have suspected, not that he's complaining, and he supposes that if you _have_ to stay in an inn in the middle of nowhere, Lincolnshire then modern conveniences might make up for the rest of it, so that's bound to be why — and they both came prepared with things to wash up with. 

They talk all the while, have the conversations they probably ought to have had in the first place.

"…if a bit slow," Richard says, but he's smiling, teasing only a little.

"I like it slow," Thomas replies, and it doesn't feel like he's defending himself from insult, either, only sharing a fact. "When it's offered. We didn't talk about what you like."

"I'll keep that in mind," Richard says blithely, "and I'll let you know." A pause. "But it was incredible."

From his seat on the bathing stool, Thomas leans over the wall of the tub and kisses him on the cheek.

It isn't until he pulls away and sees Richard raising his eyebrows that he realises he was expected to say something.

He raises his back, waits to be told what.

"What did you think?" Richard says pointedly.

In retrospect it ought to have been obvious that he would want to know this.

"Incredible's the right word," Thomas settles on saying, and Richard nods. He's not sure how to phrase what else is on his mind, though; it feels like anything he could say wouldn't get the whole point across.

"And?" 

Because they haven't even spent ten full days together in their lives, and Richard can already read him like he's a bloody picture book.

"It wasn't what I expected," Thomas says slowly. He looks at his hands as though they'll tell him the right thing to say, which they won't, and takes a deep breath. "Guess I always figured it had to be… unbalanced."

And then, before Richard can draw conclusions or give him any food for thought where that's concerned, he adds, "I mean, I know it doesn't, I've known that, don't think I believe the rubbish about what who does what means and all, because I don't, but… it wasn't like I ever did firsthand 'til now."

"Yeah," Richard says, "yeah, I get what you mean."

"And it was…"

Again, how to put it? 

He looks up, and Richard tilts his head after him, waiting.

"I needed to learn that, er, that way."

Richard nods. "In my experience it makes a difference who you're with." 

He can say that again.

"Glad it was you."

"Likewise, Mr Barrow," Richard replies, grinning.

The fact that they still keep up with the teasing formalities after a year and a half makes him giddy for no rational reason.

"I got to look at you," Thomas says suddenly, because that's what he's been thinking since they got out of bed, just that, that they were face to face, and the words come out a whisper. He huffs, clears his throat. "I liked that; I don't normally… well. That's it, really, normally I don't, but – "

"There's a time and a place for it," says Richard, casually. He's wringing a washcloth out over his legs (there's no way the bath isn't terribly cold by now); Thomas can't stop himself from staring. "With you I figure that's near on everywhere and always, 'less we choose otherwise."

God, he's so — 

"It felt good," he says, definitive. "Everything with you feels good, it's…"

He trails off, not because he doesn't know what to say but because he's overcome by what he's feeling.

"Yeah," Richard says eventually. Probably was waiting for him to pick it up again. "Been feeling the same way about you since Downton."

"You understand me," Thomas murmurs. Saying it out loud plain and clear makes him feel more vulnerable than spreading his legs does.

Richard says nothing, but he's still smiling, more to himself now than anything. It takes his breath away.

Because God, is he something to look at, hair wet to his head and rivulets of water still along his chest and arms, leaning back. He has his knees up in a way that vaguely reminds him of a subject of the sort of photograph postcards blokes uses to pass around in the trenches, the kind that he got his hands on and then easily swapped for cigarettes with no qualms about it, because, for obvious reasons, none of them ever appealed to him. None of them ever looked like this.

Old memory. Strange to be reminded of in the here and now. But the resemblance is there.

Richard sees him looking and smirks; he puts the cloth back in the water and moves it around like a child might, trailing, before draping it over one of his thighs.

He's so fucking gorgeous.

"Golly," Thomas says, affected and plummy, "this pension has the loveliest vista," and to his own ears it sounds like a horrendous combination of Lady Rose and Lady Once-Edith-Now-Hexham, a far cry from anything the man in front of him is capable of, but Richard, being acquainted with neither of them, seems to find it funny all the same, or maybe is just humouring him, which is something he often does.

Still, they both laugh.

"Just needed a different perspective, then, Mr Barrow?"

And now they're back where they started.

"Finally saw how the other half lives," Thomas quips, and he dodges just in time to escape Richard flinging the washcloth in his direction. Sprinkled, but not hit.

They fall into easy silence, and Thomas sits there looking at him for a while longer, probably with a very stupid and very soppy look on his face because he's all warm and tingly on the inside, before standing and making for the sink.

Time to make things awkward.

He's glad he took the time to put nightclothes on after getting cleaned up instead of lazing around in a towel as he'd been tempted, because this is going to make him feel bare enough as it is.

Mostly because he doesn't know how to joke about it, despite the fact that this would have been a useful skill to develop in the last twelve or so years — and he hasn't forgotten what happened this summer. 

He turns to Richard, holds up his left hand, and, hoping it is clear that he is referring primarily to the glove, says, "I need to wash this."

If he was going to joke about it, he might then say, _because it is going to smell like you if I don't,_ because that would probably get a good reaction out of him, and though the thought is in his head he's suddenly nervous, mouth dry, because —

Well.

Because he doesn't know how to joke about this. Not with people who matter, at least. 

It's worse, too, that it's been years since anyone new has seen it, and he doesn't know what to expect as far as a reaction goes. He himself is accustomed to looking at (and feeling, which for Miss Baxter was worse than looking, and Richard is far more likely to be feeling it than anyone else) his own damn hand at this point.

As he'd feared, Richard is visibly uncertain, but hopefully only because he can sense that Thomas is nervous about it. He's kind of like a dog, the way he does that, and like a dog, he uses that sense in completely unpredictable ways. It came through this summer, and it comes through in his letters.

"And it's not pretty underneath," Thomas adds, willing himself to keep his voice steady, "not fit for service in the least," which is one way of putting it, like Richard even cares about that, but he's still bloody insecure over it even after all these years, "and I don't want…"

What doesn't he want? Isn't that the question… He falters.

Richard nods.

"War wound, wasn't it?"

 _Nice weather today, isn't it?_

"Yeah," after a fashion. He doesn't know when he'll get around to sharing those details, exactly. It would be nice to do it all at once.

Another nod.

"Gunshot?"

"Yeah."

Thomas swallows, looks to the side, then back again.

"Right," Richard says, definitively, confident, devil-may-care. He sits up straight to set his elbows over the side of the tub, rests his chin on the back of his forearm. "Already determined I get to see more of you than the rest, haven't we?"

He doesn't know what it was he expected, but this should have been it. This is how Richard is, and this is what Richard does. Thomas nods — already, he feels as though the weight on his shoulders is lessening.

"Don't think you have to show me outright if you aren't up to it," Richard adds, still nonchalant, "but if I happen to see it, I'd say that's in with the pattern."

"Okay," Thomas says. He's surprised that he means it.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And that's all it is, until they're in bed again half an hour later, clean and tidy.

They've propped the window open — the rain has slowed, but it shows no sign of stopping — and turned down the linens of the other bed layer by layer, draped the pillowcases over chairs; in the morning, Thomas is going to have one of the three cigarettes he's brought with him.

Circumspect. 

"We'll need to leave the room tomorrow, won't we," Thomas mutters. 

He's got his head against Richard's chest and shoulder on his left side, resting, both arms over the covers. If they don't stay close they'll wake up in the morning too cold for comfort, the window being open, and that's motivation enough to drape himself all over him for as long as he allows it.

Richard is reading; Thomas is thinking. The book and paper he brought with him are unappealing..

"How do you figure?" Richard asks, sarcastic, only just keeping up his poker face.

Thomas snorts.

"Food, water, appearances," but he doesn't want to end on that note, and adds, "fresh air."

"But no sunshine," says Richard, like he's chastising a child whose behaviour wasn't _that_ bad.

"Not if I can help it," Thomas replies, flippant. "None of that for us."

"Need an excuse to stay in."

It's a little too close for comfort, joking about this, and they both fall quiet after that.

He regrets bringing it up, but it was on his mind. 

"I like this," Thomas says eventually, when he's grown tired of only hearing turning pages. 

"Yeah?"

"I like sharing a bed."

One that's large enough for both of them, specifically. Richard wraps his arm around him and rubs up and down his arm, then only down, all the way to his wrist; Thomas is once more conscious that his hand is bare.

And Richard is, too.

"Can I touch it?" he asks, and though it's blunt and sudden Thomas had seen it coming in the back of his mind.

"Yeah," he says cautiously. "If you want."

Probably feels like he has to more than actually wants to. Like it's required of him.

"May as well, since you can stomach looking at it," Thomas adds, sharp all of a sudden in the way that just comes out of his mouth whether he wants it to or not, and Richard gently takes hold of his wrist, turns it over and under, his thumb faint over the scarring on the inside, and Thomas finds he can't continue on.

Which is a good thing, really.

He's never sniped with Richard the way he knows he's capable of, and he doesn't want to.

"You were right it's not fit for service," Richard says. Thomas can't place his tone. Noncommittal, he supposes. "But what is?"

One way of looking at it.

"Plenty of things," Thomas says.

"You put the ideal onto paper and none of our lot will ever measure up." He's got a point there. "Gets worse every year, all the newfangled things they expect us to pick up when they've been living about the same since the 18th century, albeit with added conveniences making it work…"

They come from very different sorts of houses, Thomas thinks idly, and then he feels stupid for it — they come from different sorts of houses! You don't say! 

"…I've seen advertisements asking for blokes who can do three trades at once. It's a wonder there are any domestics left, if that's the criteria."

"Well, no one's ever met every requirement, have they," Thomas says. "Doubt there's a man on Earth who could, these days."

"Good thing there's no alternative to a man, then, isn't there, Mr Barrow?"

Thomas snorts. Isn't that the truth, when it comes down to it.

Still, he says, "aside from a woman, you mean?"

"I'd forgotten about those," says Richard flippantly, and Thomas laughs outright at that, short, like a bark.

"But, yeah, our employers are bad enough as it is," Richard adds. "Christ, Thomas, think if there _were_ an alternative," and when he speaks again he's all paternal and affronted, sounds like he's straight out of Oxford: "Could you imagine having a human being for a servant? I simply couldn't bear it."

He kisses the top of his head; Thomas laughs until he recalls very suddenly how this conversation began.

"It can't be pleasant," he begins, because he feels like he needs to get one last warning in, one last don't-say-I-didn't, material for an I-told-you-so. Just in case. "Touching it, I mean, not – "

"Having a human being for a – "

"Thank you, your Lordship," and they both laugh again; there's a flutter in his chest. "No, it's just, er, looking is bad enough for most people."

Although _most people_ amounts to about four or five.

And maybe Richard isn't one of them, or at least, not in the same way — he'd seen him wince in the washroom out of the corner of his eye, but other than that, nothing, didn't make a face or a sound, and now he's sliding his hand down along his wrist, fingers gently side by side, over the crater in the back of his hand and then his knuckles, tender but unceremonial. 

"Palm's worse, I think," he says, trying to be nonchalant in the way that Richard always manages to be and, he thinks, failing. "Exit wound, and they had to take out the bits and pieces and whatnot, ended up there was more flesh missing on that side," _why_ is he saying this, _why_ would Richard want to hear this… 

Richard hums. He traces a line under his little finger, where the skin is wrinkled and tough, and then places the palm of his hand to the back of Thomas's, gingerly.

It's uncomfortable.

Mentally more than physically.

"But it's all part of you, isn't it," Richard says softly, and Thomas tries to relax against him and feels vaguely like he's going to be waking up from a dream any minute now.

"Yeah," Thomas says. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Not, er. Not something that can be better or worse depending on where you look, I reckon." Richard takes a breath. "Not in the way I think you mean."

Because he's got to let out how pathetic he is with everything he tells him.

"With you, maybe."

"Yeah," Richard says, a tad more grave. "I'll concede to that. But – "

"It can be for your eyes only," Thomas murmurs. "Like, er… like the rest."

With his free hand Richard folds over the corner of his page and closes his book, sets it on the night table. He kisses Thomas on the head again.

"Thanks," he says. "For showing me."

It had been somewhat awkward this summer trying to hide it.

Funny that they're so much more comfortable with one another this time around. Or, maybe it isn't, seeing as now they've already met on their own terms. And Thomas guesses their current location probably helps, too, being so removed from what they both know. They write so often and share so much — veiled, of course, but still plenty — that Thomas wonders sometimes if they'd know each other half as well if they only ever met face to face, didn't have the barrier of paper and distance making things easier to say.

On the other hand, when they're alone together, it's easy to be the kind of person he wants to be, too. The problem is that they won't always be alone, and there are parts of him he knows will come out sooner or later, ones he's afraid of. Some he can get out of the way at will and some he can't.

This falls into the former, though, or at least, he hopes it does. Thomas takes a deep breath, and asks, "can I share something else?"

Richard tenses up behind him — not a lot, but enough that Thomas notices.

Maybe it was something in his tone.

"What sort of something?"

"How I got it."

"In the war, you mean."

"No," Thomas says, dripping with sarcasm, "in the Crawleys' dining room."

Richard snorts. "Ask a foolish question…"

"He says, as though he's not a bloody expert at giving foolish answers."

"Well, I haven't won any prizes over it."

Thomas sits up off of him and gives him his best are-you-kidding-me face. The one he normally uses on the maids.

"Right," Richard says, softening after about a second of eye contact. "I gather it wasn't in a regular way."

He shakes his head.

They wrote to one another about the war in November, because how could they possibly not with all the reminders everywhere, and so they each know more now about one another's service than they'd learned in the summer. But even then, it had just been snippets, jumping back and forth when it was relevant and stopping whenever it was too much, never looking it in the face, but there are some things Thomas can never put in writing. Not safely.

This being one of them.

From what he does know about Richard's experiences, he's got more than his fair share of those things, too.

Thomas puts his head back on his shoulder, and once again Richard wraps his arm around him and takes his hand, interlacing their fingers.

It's unlikely, Thomas supposes, that he doesn't know what he's about to say. Richard's not daft; it's a wound to his fucking left hand. That said, the awareness that he's got to know what's coming isn't going to stop him from being nervous over saying it. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat and says, "It was self inflicted."

And then he waits.

Richard doesn't say anything.

"Held up a lighter in the dark and let a German do the hard part for me."

Nothing at all, but he's brushing his thumb back and forth over Thomas's own, still gentle. It's just when Thomas is about to go on again that he says, "you were in the trenches."

 _Where else_ , he thinks, but he says, "yeah."

"Awful."

"Just about."

Richard adjusts his hold on Thomas's hand, slipping his fingers under and between his own, thumb on the back of his hand. Palm to palm. Thomas stiffens, closes his eyes. "Don't suppose you'll let me go thinking it must've been down to shell shock."

"No," Thomas says. His voice doesn't waver, even though he feels like it should — but, no complaints about that. "No, I knew what I was doing." 

"I figured you did."

"Was an impulse, if I'm honest, but they – well, it's a risky business, right, but they don't look twice if it's foreign artillery, and in the RAMC we didn't carry." He takes a deep breath, repeats, "I knew what I was doing."

"Don't you tend to?"

No.

And Richard ought to know that better than anyone by now, after everything.

He's speaking so plainly that Thomas feels like there's going to be a trap somewhere — _but there isn't,_ he tells himself, _there isn't,_ even if it's hard to believe, even here and now, after everything. He hopes that maybe someday he'll be able to muzzle that voice in his head, the one that sees danger everywhere, even in safe places, even with safe people. The one that tells him to burn all of the bridges just after he's crossed them.

"Thomas?"

Again Richard kisses his head, and again he feels all light and fluttery in his head and chest. But the sensation is with him for only a moment before that instinct comes back again, that sense there's a piece of it all he can't see yet. Hiding. Being kept from him. _Just let me have this,_ he thinks, pleading with himself, _just let me pretend I have this._

"What are you thinking?"

As if he could say. Thomas shrugs against his shoulders and starts to pull from him.

 _Don't run away,_ the logical part of him warns. _You'll only stick your foot in it…_

The logical part of him doesn't get listened to as often as it should.

"Now's not the best of times to be gathering wool," Richard says. There's something underlying the words, a suggestion that Thomas can't quite make out for certain. Cautious.

"I'm still here," he says shortly. Because he is. He's thinking, but he's here; he's not shell-shocked or nervous or absentminded or whatever Richard suspects. All of which he ought to be aware, given he spoke of the matter out loud not even a minute ago. 

Unless he's humouring him again.

Thomas wouldn't put it past him.

"What, then?"

What indeed. When he laughs, it sounds forced — it _is_ forced, but he was hoping it wouldn't come off that way. He can't get away with not saying anything. "Wondering why you haven't left me yet."

"I'm not going to leave you," Richard says, less abrupt than before, all soft like he's fragile or on the verge of cracking.

He's not on the verge of anything; he was just telling the truth, and he doesn't need affirmations about the future when he's just trying to accept his lot for the now.

"Thomas," he says again, in the same tone. 

Thomas pulls his hand away and slips out from under Richard's arm to sit all the way up straight; Richard leans back against the headboard of the bed and fixes him with a look that makes him feel like he's a child in trouble for something he didn't do.

"You can't just say that," Thomas says. It sounds like he's saying _I dare you,_ brittle, dry, one touch away from snapping; it's in his voice, he'll admit that, but he's not bloody delicate and he's not stupid either, and even if the end isn't coming soon he'd be an idiot to act like it never will at all. He knows better than that. "When you don't know if it's true or not."

"Not over this."

And there it is.

"Yeah, well," he says, "that's it, then, isn't it?"

"Thomas, I – "

"Just because you don't know what it is yet doesn't mean you'll not go over _something._ "

"Thomas, that's not what I meant," Richard says, bordering on patronistic. 

"Yeah?"

"No, Christ, why would it be? For the – "

"I'm sure you have your reasons – "

"Why?" asks Richard. He's just as condescending as before and sardonic for good measure, but he's still just sitting there like this is a regular old non-confrontational conversation. "Do you _want_ me to leave you?"

…turns out it's very, very different when he's the one saying it. Thomas puts his hand up to his face, fingers curled; he looks away.

"No," he whispers.

"Then quit goading me into saying I will."

"I'm not goading you."

"You are."

Thomas makes a noise of derision that he immediately regrets.

"Right," Richard says, and there's that _disciplining a child_ voice again. "I wasn't having it when you got like this in London, and I'm not about to have it now, so if you'd – "

"I'm not like anything," Thomas snaps, turning back toward him, "and _if I may,_ I'm not the one making promises I can't – "

"Thomas," interrupts Richard, unflinching and unimpressed. "I have risked everything for you."

_Yeah well curious that you have isn't it because I never asked you to do that in the first place and I haven't even made up for the first time yet and I'll never be able to for as long as I live because unlike me you know what you're fucking doing and people like you and you have influence and you can actually take care of yourself and you matter and you could make it on your own if you wanted instead of just telling yourself that you do and you can and you could and you are and knowing it'll never come off because that just isn't how life fucking works when you're this sort of person and you've been trapped in the North Riding for almost twenty years and anyone who could help you do anything can also ruin your life at any moment whenever they fancy it and they just haven't yet because you're still useful but they've thrown you away before and they won't have any trouble doing it again because no one has a problem with it, nobody has a fucking problem with throwing him away and why should this be any different when he never deserved saving and maybe it would be better for everyone if he'd just gone to prison because then at least he'd stop bloody ruining everything for everyone else and getting people's bloody hopes up and well maybe his own life would be ruined but that's what they all want anyway they're only kind because they know he'll never do or be anything that matters it's all just fucking pity that they only started when he tried to off himself and what good people they all are for being nice to him at all why they ought to be congratulated and besides there are only so many bloody times a man can try to come out on top when he's never fucking made it there before and now he's only going to drag Richard down with him because the man went out on a limb for someone who never fucking deserved it and maybe now he's finally figured it out and it's his own fucking fault why did he have to go and_

"Whoa, whoa, Thomas, I – Christ – "

"I'm not a bloody pony," he says, through his teeth and into his hands, and his voice is broken and trembling and he can't stop fucking shaking even though he _just said_ he was fine. Just his fucking luck.

Trying to swallow it back down only makes the lump in his throat grow larger. Thomas can hear his own breathing, hoarse gasps, and his fingers are wet with tears.

"Right," Richard says, but he doesn't go on. Thomas feels him get out of bed and can't even blame him for it because who in his right mind would want to deal with a grown man sobbing at the mere idea of being abandoned like that isn't going to quicken the process? It's stupid, he's stupid, so why can't he bloody stop —

And then Richard takes him by the wrist, gentle, and folds a handkerchief into his palm.

After a moment of sitting there foolishly thinking _what,_ he uses it for its intended purpose, but the tears keep coming and so does the shake of his shoulders, the feeling like he'll never breathe again so he's got to get all of his air now, all in swells.

Richard exhales in an exasperated sort of way, and Thomas manages to choke out, "sorry."

"Figure I couldn't have said anything right," Richard says, a little too airy, a little too unbothered. He minds more than he's letting on.

Thomas can't blame him, because he's right, really. This sort of thing just happens. It's exceedingly rare, but it happens, and it's his own fault plain and simple. Never in front of other people, though, not if he can help it. Not unless someone walks in on him or something, and there were a couple years there for a while wherein he could count on that happening because Baxter (thankfully) doesn't mind her own business, but… 

At least he didn't quite get to the point of verbal knife throwing.

He hasn't yet at all with him, and he intends to keep it that way.

"Maybe I should have taken you up on the nap," Thomas mumbles, his voice wobbly, and then Richard has his arm around him and he's crying into his chest and wishing this were over.

"Maybe," Richard says. 

He's only done this in front of him once before, and that was in the car on a side road somewhere between Rawcliffe and Skelton.

He'd had a better excuse for it then, although that was probably more embarrassing. They'd just met.

"Does this happen all that often?"

Thomas shakes his head.

Two out of three for them, but that's been it for the last three or so years now. "Right, let's, er, put all that talk to bed for now."

He nods.

He's stopped shaking and run out of tears; now he's got to reckon with how mortified he is.

Richard adds, "don't stay awake on my account, if you're overtired," and squeezes his shoulder.

So they're not going to talk about the aftermath, either, then.

Probably for the best.

"Not that late, is it," Thomas says, hoarse. 

As Richard reaches for his watch, Thomas pulls away from him, gently. 

"Quarter 'til nine."

If he were at Downton right now he'd be serving dinner — or, he would be, if the Crawleys weren't up in Northumberland.

"'s early."

"We may as well take opportunities for rest as they come."

And though he lies down, Thomas says, "no fun in that for you."

"We've got the morning for fun."

And though those are some very nice words, it is, Thomas thinks, more likely that they will use the morning to work out what he just put him through.

"Why don't you try, Thomas," Richard continues, and though he's still got that condescending air…

It's tempting.

He lays his head on the pillow and closes his eyes.

"I'm not doing it 'cause you said so," he says.

Richard chuckles.

It doesn't take long at all for him to doze off.

When he wakes, it's to lamplight, warm and gold. Beside him Richard is still sitting up, back straight, book in hand.

The second Thomas shifts, he notices, turning his head to gaze down at him as Thomas looks up.

"How are we?" Richard asks.

"Little better," he admits.

"It's been about forty-five minutes," comes the amused reply. It makes sense it's not been very long, given their positions are exactly as Thomas remembers them and the light's still on and all of that, but it feels like it's been ages, and not necessarily in a good way.

Must be about half to ten.

Fancy that.

He still wouldn't be near bed yet at Downton.

"What'd you do while I was asleep?" Thomas asks as he adjusts, resting his head on his arm, head tilted comfortably up at him.

"Read, wrote, the like."

"Wrote," he repeats. He raises his eyebrows. The corners of Richard's mouth quirk just a tad, not a smile, but not a smirk, either.

"I keep a diary."

The thought of him getting any of the day's events down on paper is a little disconcerting, to say the least. Thomas decides not to bring up the fact that Richard has on multiple occasions advised him to be cautious about what he puts in writing.

It's different when it's going through the post, he supposes.

"So do I."

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah, t's in my bag, though."

"Could get it for you."

"No," Thomas starts, then pauses. He sort of shakes his head, but he suspects the effect is diminished by the way he's settled on the pillow. "I'm not sure what there is to say — 'saw Crawleys off this morning, took train to Corby, got soaked, met Richard, buggered him'."

Richard chokes out a laugh; heat rises to Thomas's cheeks.

He did this to himself.

"...figure I'll remember the last bit and the rest will come to me when I do," says Thomas slowly. "Not much to add."

This next smirk is a full one. "There's always room for more detail."

"Are you writing in detail about me, then?

"I may be."

Thomas huffs, and Richard lays his hand on top of his chest, separated from his skin by only the coverlet.

"Is it a memoir or an erotic novel?" he asks, sarcastic.

Again Richard laughs, warm and easy, and Thomas smiles in a way that he is certain is goofy and ridiculous, the way he can't even stop if he tried. And sometimes he does try. 

He won't now.

"Mightn't it be both," Richard says, in his you'll-have-to-decide-for-yourself-if-this-is-a-question-that-begs-an-answer voice.

"Is there a press that takes those?"

"They'll publish post-mortem," he says airily.

"Don't say that," Thomas says immediately, sharp.

"Sorry."

And then — "it's just an ordinary diary, Thomas."

They've only got so much time together and he's ruining it by being so bloody _touchy_ — he wills himself to breathe, closes his eyes for longer than a blink, flexes and curls his hand above the covers.

"Mine is, too," he manages to say.

Richard tilts his head down at him. His expression is vague, but he takes Thomas's hand in his own, spreading out his fingers and threading them through with slow, emphasised movements. Dramatic. Thomas bends at the wrist and presses the heels of their hands together; Richard touches his fingertips to the back of his hand, gentle.

"I've never much understood the appeal in reading other folks' journals and letters," he says thoughtfully.

Thomas squints at him.

"Everyone's curious about how other people live," he says. "Perfectly ordinary."

"Everyone?"

"'Least I am," a tad affronted. "Most people I've met are."

"I'm not."

"You're lying," Thomas blurts, immediately, unthinkingly — but after a second's reflection, he doesn't regret it. He knows it's true.

Although his hand stills, Richard does not pull away.

"How do you figure?"

"Because it's bloody part and parcel if you're a homosexual, Richard."

"You might consider that's why I'm not."

Oh, he's heard this before — hasn't everyone, in one way or another, but in this case… "you can tell yourself you don't care all you like, but – "

"Didn't say I didn't care," Richard interrupts. He moves his hand, and for a moment Thomas fears he's pulling away, but he only squeezes their fingers together. "Said I'm not curious, and that's the truth. I waste enough of my damn time on the lives of normal people as it is, not about to ponder them any more than I've got to."

Inclined as he is to interrupt, Thomas finds he needs to take a moment to collect his thoughts after Richard's finished.

It's a sad state they're in, really. That they have to think about this at all.

Maybe he's putting more of himself unto Richard than he ought to be, but after everything — after Downton, especially, the night when everything fell into place and they told each other how lonely they'd been for years — he knows that they've both searched, before. And he's got to have wondered.

It's human nature.

" _You_ might consider I wasn't talking about normal people," Thomas tells him in earnest, and then, before he can retort, he adds, "what're you reading?"

And for a moment he thinks that Richard isn't going to abide by the change of subject, but… 

Ultimately, he does. He closes the book and tilts it toward him.

Thomas raises his eyebrows.

Sly, Richard opens the cover, takes the flap and peels off the dust jacket —

"Aren't you clever," Thomas says.

He doesn't recognise the title nor the author, but he figures it's a more compelling read than what he's making it look like.

"Yes," he answers, smug and smiling.

"I wouldn't shame you for reading detective fiction, you know."

"You might."

Yeah, he might.

"It's poetry," Richard continues. "You care much for that sort of thing?"

He could, depending on how much Richard does.

"Read some poets I like," he says after a moment. "Always preferred drama, to be honest with you." 

It's true, after all.

"Knowing you that's not much of a surprise," Richard says dryly.

Oh, so that's how it is. 

Thomas doesn't say anything, just looks up at him and pouts, and Richard laughs. He does release his hand, then, but only to touch his lower lip; Thomas manages to give his fingers just one kiss before he's pulled away again.

One is better than none.

"You like to sulk, don't you?" 

"I may."

"Very charming."

He doesn't even sound sarcastic.

"Thought it was endearing from when we first met," Richard says earnestly; Thomas scoffs.

"When did I _sulk_ when we first met?"

"Well, there was that mess with Downton's retired butler – "

"Let's talk about something else," Thomas interrupts, because the very absolute last thing he wants to think about, let alone discuss, is bloody Carson — "anything else, you choose."

Richard yawns, then frowns.

It's as good a place to jump from as any.

"Maybe we both should have slept," says Thomas wryly.

Richard says, "it's too early," as though Thomas hadn't made the same bloody protest an hour ago and gotten a whole lecture over it. Luckily for him, wise man that he is, Richard sets his book aside and transitions to lying down next to him, their legs brushing, close.

Thomas pokes him. "We are on holiday," he tells him with false gravity, and then he brings his hand to cup his cheek, feeling a rush of affection. Richard blinks at him slowly. He's smiling; his hair has dried into waves — he doesn't remember seeing him like this before, not _quite_ like this, this state he's in where he's come undone _(multiple times,_ Thomas thinks, _more than once_ ) and it shows in his face and his hair and the way he moves, smug as ever in air but more tranquil about it than he ever is otherwise. 

He drinks in the sight.

Facing him, Richard is making no effort to hide that he's looking at Thomas the same way. 

It overwhelms him. 

Someone, a man, _this_ man, is seeing him at the end of the day when he's sleepy and fucked out and almost shy, and he's liking it.

A lot, if how he feels when he looks at him is anything to go by.

"You can turn off the light now," Thomas says. He means to be sarcastic, but the words come out soft.

"Thanks," Richard says, "for your permission," and he rolls over and takes care of it without a word, then rolls back and starts kissing him before his eyes have even begun to adjust.

And after he gets over the initial moment of surprise, Thomas kisses him back, calm and leisurely. He feels as though he could doze off at any moment, but falling asleep while he's kissing another man seems unlikely, so he takes as much of the lead as he can, sliding his hand down from Richard's shoulder to his elbow, then under his arm to settle at his waist, holding him; he takes his upper lip between his own.

Richard yields, parting his lips and tilting toward him.

He's sighing into his mouth (his voice is higher and softer than it normally is) when he places his hand on Thomas's shoulder and squeezes, and Thomas shifts beside him. It's pleasant; he sighs, too. Richard drags his palm down from there along his upper arm, tracing his fingers at the inside of his elbow in a way that makes him shiver, and then all the way down from his hand, which he takes, his palm to the back of Thomas's hand.

Now it's him who yields, releasing his already gentle hold and allowing Richard to push his hand down to his hip, and then his thigh, then the inside of his thigh.

"Reckon you might go again?" Richard asks.

He's a little too cocky.

Given they've been kissing since the lamp went out and he's not feeling anything yet…

"Can't," he says, as tactfully as he can muster, and immediately Richard takes his hand off of his and pulls away, giving a small cough.

Embarrassed.

He's embarrassed.

Inappropriate though it may be, Thomas smiles at the thought.

"Sorry," Richard says, "didn't mean to – "

Thomas reaches out toward him in the dark, fumbling to find his hand again. After two misses he succeeds, and he interlaces their fingers, insistent. "Didn't say _you_ couldn't, now, did I?" he asks, and his nerves make his voice somewhat hoarse, but it ends up sounding more sultry than anxious. 

Good.

His body owes him that, at least.

Almost playful, he tugs at Richard's hand, bringing it down to his prick; he's already half hard, warm and firm in his grasp — in _their_ grasp, together.

Richard gasps, but then he cuts himself short and tenses.

"Can take care of it myself," he says, resigned and a little stubborn.

Thomas is about to tell him not to be daft when he makes a split-second decision to take advantage of their circumstances. He lets go and adjusts beside him, so his head is nearer to him than his hips are. He doesn't need to be more tempting than is strictly necessary, not for what he has in mind.

"If you insist," he says dryly.

"'m not about to ask for something you can't give."

As if it was going to be more than hands, anyway — _now who's overtired,_ he wants to tease, _now who's sulking,_ except it's not entirely the same as sulking when Richard's not trying to guilt him. At least, Thomas thinks he isn't. That he's just disappointed and bad at hiding it, because, surprise, he has had a long day, and he is tired. "Don't stop on my account, then," Thomas says, and luckily enough his voice is still deep and he's managing to be flippant all the same. He's smirking; he wonders if Richard can see it in this light. "Take care of it."

Richard doesn't move.

"This is an odd thing to be stubborn about," Thomas tells him, and then he tongues at his lip, deliberating, before adding, "not my fault you can't resist me," and he takes Richard by the wrist and moves his hand back to his groin before letting go again. He repeats, "take care of it."

Richard makes a sweet, strangled noise, like music to his ears, and Thomas hears the faint sound of skin-to-skin friction and feels the mattress move ever so slightly beneath him. He keeps talking, and any awkwardness he feels is overshadowed by the knowledge that if he's guessed correctly, Richard is probably not going to care — "touch yourself," he says, and then as an afterthought he amends his instruction to, "touch yourself for me."

"Christ," Richard says, a whisper.

"Just me, I'm afraid, Mr Ellis."

And that makes him laugh, if only a little, soft.

"Thomas," he corrects.

"Yes indeed."

He brings his hand back to his arm, caresses his elbow like he'd done for him before, and there's that pleased little sigh again, a sign of breath but not relief.

"You do this when I'm not around?" Thomas asks casually.

"Yeah."

"Hope you think about me when you do," he continues. "Would hardly be fair if you didn't."

"Yeah," Richard says again, and Thomas finds himself giving a laugh again, fond.

"I've told you already I think of you," he replies. He moves his thumb in circles at Richard's elbow, considering. Though he feels warm and loved and loving and thrilled, it's not the same as it normally is, and somehow that makes it easier and harder all at once. "Is it the same every night?"

Because that was a good question on Richard's part.

"Yeah," Richard says.

"Well, we can't have that." He's still smirking, even though Richard probably couldn't see it even if his eyes were open. They're not, anymore. "Not now that I've – now that I've fucked you — yeah, go on, think about that," he adds when Richard moans. Thomas has to force himself to keep going despite how much he wants to, because his head is spinning. He's dizzy; this is dizzying, just not in the usual way, and he takes a deep breath, tells himself it's going to be more awkward if he stops than if he goes on. "Think about my cock in you."

Richard whines.

Thomas forgets how to breathe.

"I wish you knew what you looked like when you're like this," he murmurs after a moment. It wasn't the sort of talk he'd planned on, but he means it. "Because you're beautiful."

He can almost feel the way Richard quickens his pace, and it's encouraging. 

"You are the most handsome man I've ever met, Richard Ellis, and I get you all to myself," and he gives in to his own wants and kisses his shoulder, tender. "Get to see you come apart like this," drawing more absentminded lines up and down his arm with his fingertips, "all slow. When you were so fast in London."

"Wanted you," Richard breathes.

"Oh, so you don't now, is that it?"

"No, no, I – "

"'Swhat I thought."

And Thomas kisses him, his lips shut.

"'Twas the first time," says Richard after they've parted, soft and breathless and yearning and exactly how Thomas likes him. "First time I could have you as I wanted."

He will remember this. He's in his right mind, and he is _going_ to remember this.

"Guess you practised since then," he says, and on what is objectively a stupid impulse reaches down to wrap his thumb and pointer finger around the base of Richard's cock. It makes him moan. "Like this, maybe."

"Just like that," Richard breathes, and something in Thomas twinges at the thought, not unpleasantly.

Not so stupid an impulse, then.

He hopes he's not lying for the sake of the game, because the idea's a wonderful one in all sorts of ways.

"Yeah?"

Thomas pinches.

"Yeah – yeah, I, fuck – "

"I like when you swear."

He does.

It's proof he's got an effect over him. He's only heard him do it a few times — the first, angry and frustrated and exasperated in the car back from York that important, very fateful night; the second today, when he was out of his mind getting himself off on Thomas's prick.

Two very different occasions.

Richard gasps. "Can you blame me," he asks, voice pitched higher than normal and breathy, too, "for wanting you for longer – "

The side of his hand keeps brushing Thomas's fingers, first once or twice, slow, and then continuing at a regular pace, one that quickens.

"Don't blame you," Thomas says, still more soft than he means to. "I'm flattered."

That's an understatement.

"Nice to be wanted."

That is, too.

Richard hums. Thomas can feel him, can feel the twists of his hips and tension in his thighs, the way he squirms even as he keeps his hand still. _Because_ he keeps his hand still, maybe.

It's a wonder he can keep going on his own, really. 

"I'm ready," Richard says.

"Are you?"

"Yeah."

Thomas pauses.

"How nice," he says, and Richard whines; to make him shut up, Thomas kisses him.

He wastes no time when it's ended: "'m ready, love." 

Well, he can't resist him when he calls him that. Richard has probably figured this out by now.

"All right, then," and he squeezes one last time. "All right, Richard."

And he releases his hand, pulls away at the last second.

Immediately Richard is coming into his own hand with a breathy, high-pitched moan, and before Thomas can think he's rolled over face down, muffling his own sounds.

"I love you," Thomas says, and somehow he's still making that fucking wonderful noise, but it subsides, and then he's only breathing heavily, just the corner of his mouth free of the pillow as his back rises and falls, and Thomas can only barely see him well enough to know it.

He takes a deep breath and rolls out of bed, ignoring Richard's questioning noise — he fumbles in the dark at first, but he manages to make it to the bureau where they'd left everything and take up a handkerchief. His own.

Then he realises he probably could have just offered him his, the one he'd cried into, but the thought on its own is strange enough he decides that this is the right choice.

Once back at the bed, he lays it on the pillow in front of Richard's face; he takes it.

Thomas sits up with his legs crossed, looking down at him. He watches, tries not to think about the nature of what they're doing and how difficult it can be to hide —

"Thanks," Richard breathes. 

"I love you," Thomas repeats.

He's probably said it too many times; Richard hasn't as much. But every time he says it it's because he's thinking it and can't keep it in him for much longer.

Richard reaches up toward his shoulder and manages to get his chest; he pats him awkwardly. "I love you more."

And the doubts leave his head just like that.

"No," Thomas says.

There's a noise of agreement, and then, "no," as he lifts his back to actually get his shoulder this time, and then he's pulling him down; Thomas obliges, slipping once more under the bedding and pressing himself near to him.

"I love you the same," Richard murmurs. 

The same.

Because they understand each other. Because they're on equal footing.

Thomas wraps his arms around him and crosses their legs together at the ankles, as close as can be. Before he can bury his face into his neck, Richard kisses his forehead.

Their breathing aligns.

They fall asleep at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this too schmoopy???????? idk. telling myself i do not care because i think thomas gone his entire life wanting someone to be schmoopy with and i am simply fulfilling this need for him
> 
> and, the unraveled emotional threads will not be left loose, so do not fret if that is a concern of yours.


	4. what goes up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content notes:** blunt discussion of war, violence, & suicide (it was about time); depression & self-esteem issues; sexual content.

When he wakes for the second time in the night, he's on the edge of the bed with his back turned, tangled in the sheets.

He remembers where he is almost immediately, after which he curses himself for having gotten as far away as he possibly could have from Richard without falling on the floor. (But he's grateful that they've got one bed this time, that there's no risk of falling between two joined-together mattresses.)

Though it's dark, there's a bit of moonlight from the window, which means the rain must have stopped. He doesn't want to think about what that might mean for them and bothers himself instead over the fact that it could be anywhere between eleven at night and eight in the morning.

Thomas rolls over to find that Richard is facing him, largely uncovered, one leg bent and the other straight, one arm under the pillow and the other stretched out — toward him, he's reaching _toward him_ ; there's no tension in his shoulders or his face. Serene. He makes for a lovely picture. Thomas would stroke his face if he weren't worried it might wake him prematurely; he stifles the urge.

Richard's watch ought to be on the side table. 

It would probably be unwise to try and get at it, but though Thomas likes to think of himself as clever he has no illusions as to his wisdom, so he pulls himself up, leans over, and… 

He comes close to jostling him, but misses.

He squints at the face of the watch, holds it up to see if he can get more light without going anywhere, but he can't.

Still, if it's seven in the morning he has no business going back to sleep, so he very carefully gets himself out from the covers, lays them as neatly as he can back over Richard — he hopes he didn't get too chilly, Thomas taking them all for himself — and slips out of bed, going to the window. The floorboards are cold beneath his feet, but they don't creak.

Everything is cold, actually; once he's at the window the slight breeze makes him shiver —

Well, that would be why.

Thomas closes the window. It takes less squinting to get a good look at the time now: just after four.

If he were at Downton he might decide to go ahead and get up, cut his losses and make some use of the extra two hours to do something for himself if he weren't absolutely knackered, but he's not at Downton, and he has someone he likes with whom to share a bed. He sets the watch back where he left it on his way back over and then crawls back in, this time lying to face Richard, propped up by his elbow. 

He thinks again that he is nice to look at — how he came into such a lucky lot Thomas will never know, but he's certainly not about to complain. He reaches out, lays his palm upon his cheek. There is a gentle lift and fall as he breathes.

Thomas closes his eyes and feels.

Richard doesn't stir until he himself does, jerking as he begins to fall asleep, his arm collapsing underneath him and his hand dropping to his neck.

"Mmph?" Richard says, eyes flying open and then surveying, back and forth, wild like maybe he'd been dreaming, although if he had been before, Thomas hadn't noticed it.

"It's early," he whispers. "You can go back to sleep."

"Mmph."

Richard closes his eyes again.

But instead of falling right back asleep, he reaches out toward him, hand settling on his waist and then his hip, fingers curving; he shivers.

"You can go back to sleep," Thomas repeats.

In reply comes a noise that sounds somewhat like a protest.

"'s four o'clock," he tells him. "You're not at Buckingham Palace."

"Thanks," Richard mumbles. He splays his fingers and presses.

Thomas's breath catches.

"What, you didn't know?"

His voice is surprisingly even, surprisingly awake.

"No," he hears, and it might be a joke, but it's too muffled to tell — and then he presses his hand again, moves his fingertips in circles.

"I," Thomas starts. "I don't think now is the best time."

"Mmn," Richard says, very eloquently.

"Don't, er – don't think 'cause of last night you have to."

But he wants it, he feels it deep in his belly and his cock is stirring, and then Richard's hand is at the join of his buttock and thigh, and then he moves forward to the front of his hip, where he stops —

"Please?"

Oh, God, he cannot resist that voice.

"All right," Thomas says, mouth dry, and no sooner than the words are out of his mouth does he have him in hand, stroking slowly and leisurely. His touch is warm and gentle and it does not take long for him to harden all the way, and then he only _feels_ , feels the pleasant tugging deep in his belly, the up and down along his prick.

Richard sighs, long and contented as though he were touching himself and not Thomas.

It's nice, it's so bloody nice, God, if only he had this each morning wouldn't he be a much better person every day —

It's as good a time as any to try it out, so Thomas says "darling," the word odd on his tongue. He's aroused, though, saying it and hearing it and hearing Richard sigh.

Richard twists his hand around the shaft and presses his palm to the tip, fingertips all around, and Thomas feels a shiver again along his spine and finds himself rubbing his shins together and simply _wanting,_ so he says it again, "darling." It feels ridiculous and yet wonderful, to have something to call him all of his own.

"Yeah," Richard says as Thomas begins to roll his hips toward him, the pressure building, and then, "good."

Thomas thinks idly that Richard hasn't sounded so relaxed as this in all the time he's known him and had him (and that's not enough, not nearly enough, but he does have this, they have this together right now), not even yesterday, and he wants to make him feel that way more, he wants to be responsible for that and know that he's the one who can make him all soft and quiet and comforted, and the touch of his hand is calm, too, lazy loving strokes that are _nice_ but not enough, not nearly enough, he stops rolling and starts thrusting, and _that's more like it;_ Richard just keeps moving up and down and he's so close already and he feels it coming, he feels him bringing it out of him and the rise again of that feeling in his body, between his legs, warm and tense and oh God —

He comes into Richard's hand, the feeling over him all at once and then fading all at once; he strokes him through it, ever gentle.

"Love."

He's trying to catch his breath; that doesn't help. Not one bit. Panting through his mouth, Thomas lies still, unmoving.

"I love you," he murmurs.

And Richard only repeats himself; when he shifts beside him it's – it's probably to take care of his hand. Lucky they left at least one kerchief on the table… although given that Richard's not even coherent yet, he supposes it's also lucky he even remembered there were any there.

Thomas scoots closer to him and wraps an arm around his waist, buries his face in his neck. His heart is thumping.

"I love you," he repeats, he wants to say it over and over, has ever since he said it the first time by accident and Richard said it back on purpose, and then, tentative, "what'd you like?"

"Mouth," says Richard.

Thomas has to wonder at what point he will get past monosyllables.

He also has to wonder for how long that's been on his mind, because he wasted no time in answering. If he was thinking of it while he caressed him, while his hand was on his prick.

"I can do that."

He does his best not to hesitate, either, and so ends up in some strange position with his head under the covers and his legs and hips at the head of the bed, near Richard's face, which strikes him as being probably awkward.

Richard, lying on his back with one knee up, sets his hand upon his calf.

Seeing no reason to waste time, Thomas starts with the top side of him, poking his tongue high on the base and feeling the brush of hair at his chin, and although he tastes vaguely of soap in a nearly off-putting way his desire to do this outweighs it.

He licks in one long stroke, base to foreskin to head, and Richard gasps.

His hand holds his leg in place.

Encouraged, Thomas laps at him, at the top and side, mouths at him that way, too, takes him between his lips and gives him only the tip of his tongue.

If asked, he doesn't think he could explain it, why he likes this so much and always has, pleasuring a man with his mouth. Why it's always his first idea, what he'll do if he's the one to be doing and his is the first choice. There's probably something some sexologist would have to say about the way he likes to give being yet another form of receiving — and he's heard that one before, _don't think about that now_ — but he thinks it's just sensory, is all it is, the feeling of it.

And as he's taking him in hand to wrap his lips all the way around and suck, Richard makes soft little noises and twists his hips, and maybe that's explanation enough.

"Thomas," there it is, the first two-syllable word of the day, and Richard brings his other hand to Thomas's head and only rests it there, as is his fashion.

He's found he likes it more than having his hair pulled.

"Thomas," Richard says again, and Thomas swallows around him before taking his prick further into his mouth, halfway down. "Oh, love – "

And bloody _fucking_ hell, if he hadn't just been brought off that would do it for him; it's embarrassing and silly and boyish how affected he is by him saying that, calling him by that, each time slightly different — all those different tones of voice that Thomas is coming to know and love individually. 

He flattens his tongue to the underside and curls it; Richard strokes the back of his head and whimpers.

It's as good a sign as any — he cuts the exploring short and takes him all the way into his mouth.

He might want this just as much as Richard does.

Because he does want it, and not only for the greedy, selfish reasons (the salt taste at the back of his throat, the feel of him taking up space in his mouth, the loving, trembling caress to his hair) but because he wants to _give,_ give back to this man he loves who gives him so much and make him feel how he does when he's with him, because what that is is _good_ in a way he'd never in his life had until they met.

Thomas sucks with vigour, releasing his hold on Richard's prick so he can take him by the hips and press his fingertips into his skin, doing all he can to keep him in place as he moves his head up and down, taking him deeper into his throat until he gets all the way to as far as he can, lips close to the base. He's thick and firm and warm in his mouth; Thomas has to force himself to ease up a bit and breathe through his nose. When he swallows around him, Richard bucks his hips up to his face and says, "good, Thomas, that's it."

It's probably shallow and at least a little stupid, but he's never so proud of himself as when Richard says things like that.

He presses his lips around him and makes better use of his tongue, pushing up against the underside, licking toward him. With practised motions — this all comes back, even with months upon months in between — he tongues at the head, in circles and then around at the ridge; Richard gasps.

He's rocking up toward him with more enthusiasm, murmuring, "perfect," and Thomas finds himself smiling around him in a way that doesn't even feel like it should be possible but apparently he's managing.

"Oh, Thomas, I – "

And he thinks this might be it, so he takes him all the way again, deepthroating, and then back up. Beneath him Richard's body tenses.

He says something that Thomas can't make heads or tails of and Thomas starts to pause, but then his hand is stroking the back of his head, twirling his fingers in his hair, a repetitive motion.

"Wanna come in your mouth," Richard breathes, as though they've done anything else, and Thomas simply sucks as his fingers massage the back of his neck and scratch softly behind his ears, a stark contrast to how he's _fucking his face._ "'S it, there you are, Thomas, _that's_ it," and the way he talks like that fucking does something to him; he doesn't know what or why or why, but he knows he wants more. He moans.

But Richard doesn't have any words left — he thrusts into him, pulls himself in and out while Thomas rests slackjawed.

Then he closes his lips the short distance necessary and gets back to it.

Richard spends himself in his mouth, rolling his hips up and down toward him, and it's bloody _perfect._

The way he moans as he finishes, deep and low in pitch in the beginning but then higher, breathy; it's bloody obscene, and it's a sound that in the moment Thomas wishes he could bring out of him all the time, whenever he wanted.

Gently, Richard lowers his hand from the crown of his head to his forehead; he pushes.

Thomas swallows around him again before letting him out of his mouth and rising, crawling out from under the coverlet to end back where they started.

He wipes at his mouth with the back of his wrist. Reaching over, Richard lazily takes his hand, tugs him nearer, then… 

"Do you know where my mouth just was?" 

Before he can protest further, Richard's kissed him again — this time a mere peck on the lips.

"I'm clean," he says innocently.

"Yeah, could tell."

But he curls up against him all the same.

It's four o'clock in the morning, after all.

"Odd hour," Richard muses. He wraps his arm around his back, letting his hand settle at his waist.

"Should go back to sleep."

"Mhm."

Outside, the rain has started again. In a way that seems to be rapidly becoming a habit, Richard rubs his palm up and down at his side. The motion is soothing — every time and way Richard touches him is soothing, really, save for the brief attempt at tickling and a few sexual exceptions. It's nice and comfortable.

Thomas closes his eyes and settles his head upon his shoulder, feels nothing save for the rise and fall of Richard's chest beneath him, rhythmic, the gentle press of his hand upon his waist.

"I love you," Richard says, and he shifts in a way that makes Thomas momentarily uncomfortable before merely kissing him on the forehead, and he's able to settle, after that.

"Sorry," says Thomas.

"Was hoping for an _I love you too, Richard._ "

"Sorry."

A sigh.

"Have you got anything to be sorry for?"

He does.

And maybe now's not the best time, but...

"Having a fit of hysterics for no bloody reason comes to mind."

Either it slipped Richard's mind, or he no longer cares. Despite how much he doesn't want to have this conversation, Thomas hopes it's the former.

He needs to get the words out before he doesn't have them anymore.

"I ruffled your feathers."

"Don't have feathers," Thomas retorts, "and it wasn't _your_ fault."

"Didn't say it was."

The words are rather too nonchalant for his taste, and it shouldn't bother him that he's not fighting him on this one, not actually taking the blame, it shouldn't, because it _wasn't_ his fault, but he can't shake the feeling that his knowing that is only going to make things worse. 

It makes no goddamn sense.

Thomas takes a deep breath, but he finds he doesn't know what to actually say.

Richard continues on in his stead. "You are a bit touchy, Thomas."

 _It's not an accusation,_ he tells himself, _and even if it was it's bloody true anyway._

"Touched in the head, maybe," he mutters.

"And there we have it."

Thomas pulls away; he drapes his arm across his forehead and closes his eyes, lies back, wills himself to calm down.

Still next to him, just not on him.

"'s hardly uncommon to be sensitive to criticism," Richard says pointedly. He makes no attempt to pull him back over. "But I don't understand why you get so damn riled up over the compliments."

"You weren't exactly complimenting me last night." 

Saying that out loud was probably not an impulse he should've given into.

"Christ."

"Sorry."

"I don't understand," repeats Richard, and Thomas feels his head rush and his gut twist, because those are words he hates hearing enough as it is when it isn't _Richard saying them._ "It's – Thomas, it's been – it'd hardly been three days since I'd known you when I got you out of _jail,_ and then we spent two hours in that car and up at the house you – "

" – I _know,_ okay, I remember, and that's the point is it was me– "

" – 'cause I thought you'd get the wrong impression if I tried anything myself, things as they were, I couldn't – Christ, the next morning we spent breakfast kicking each other under the damn table, and – you somehow thought nonetheless that I might not want to see you again."

No need for the reminder.

"And then after, what, three months of writing back and forth you – "

"I _know._ "

"You _send me a letter_ ," this is not what Thomas had expected him to say, "and half of it's – Christ, Thomas, it wasn't – you know what my main concern reading that thing was?"

"What," Thomas says flatly.

"Was that you'd not got it into your head I cared for you."

Nervous, Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, licks his lips; Richard carries on.

"After three damn months. Saw you for the first time in a year this summer, wrote you soon as I knew I'd have time off, I'll tell you I was thrilled when it looked like it was going to pan out, but I remember that first day there were times I thought…"

Thomas forces himself to listen, even though doing so makes him want to cringe.

Because this is the other problem with letters, being men like them, being the sort of couple they are, is no matter how hard they try to talk about their damn feelings they've only got so many chances to do it, and it's not exactly bloody easy to begin with, so when it all comes out now it's messy and difficult and disastrous and mortifying, but he loves him and so he has to do it.

With every word Thomas feels more and more ashamed of himself, which is probably not what Richard is going for.

"…Thomas, I just don't know what I have to do to persuade you."

Like he's stating a fact.

It is a fact. But he says it, as he does many things, as though it's a plain and clear and simple one, and sometimes Thomas likes that and he needs it ( _it'll remind you of me_ ), and other times it makes him feel unimportant, and…

"I don't know, either," he admits.

"'Least you're honest."

"I don't lie to you. Never have."

"I know," Richard murmurs.

"Why do you stay?" 

For a moment Richard says nothing, but then he hums, considering.

Maybe he should have waited to ask that question.

"You live in London," Thomas says pointedly. "You could have anyone."

"Don't want _anyone._ "

"But you _could,_ " he insists. And it's true; they both know that, surely. 

"What makes you say so?"

He says it gently; he's probably trying to get Thomas to reevaluate his whole opinion on his own worth, not fishing for compliments, but…

"You by any chance looked in a mirror lately?"

And Richard laughs.

"No," he says, before taking Thomas's hand in his and squeezing, pulling his arm toward him. "Perhaps you've not noticed, Mr Barrow, but I've been in bed with you."

He's having trouble parsing the tone of this conversation.

"Yeah, well," he starts, but before he knows it Richard has rolled over to put a finger to his lips, quieting him.

"You," he repeats. "Been in bed with _you,_ Thomas."

Thomas kisses his fingertip, then forgets he's supposed to be shutting up and taking his word for it.

"That's the part I don't bloody _get_ , is you're with me — when you could have any man in all of England and pick one close enough you don't have to – to only see him once or twice in a year, and who isn't – who doesn't behave like, like this – "

"Like what?'

"Don't," Thomas says, and he's toeing the line to pleading. 

"If I were to rattle off a list of reasons I like you," Richard says, "would you take it seriously?"

He's _asking_ it seriously.

"Depends."

"On the list."

"Er, yes, I suppose."

He hums, says, "thanks," and then gently tugs at Thomas's lip.

Thomas doesn't know what to say to that.

He almost wonders if he's going to get the list here and now, but it's wishful thinking… 

Perhaps the fact that he calls it wishful thinking is a good sign.

"Did it ever occur to you I might need you just as much as you need me?"

"Do you?"

"Yeah, Thomas, I do."

His voice is soft, insistent — he's toeing the same line.

"Been waiting all my life for someone who understands," Richard murmurs. 

So has he.

"Never thought he'd be found in _Downton._ "

"It's got its charms," Thomas says, facetious.

"Not right now it doesn't."

Thomas, overwhelmed with a very sudden, very intense feeling of love and gratitude, blurts out, "let me kiss you," and Richard says, "didn't you tell me off for that just now, Mr Barrow," but they do it anyway. 

It's gentle and slow. 

It's perfect.

"Reckon it would be for the best to go back to sleep, though, yeah," Richard murmurs. His hand is warm upon Thomas's cheek.

Not for the first time, Thomas has the realisation that they could know one another far better than they do, if they were only closer.

"When do you normally get up?"

But then, they'd probably have to sacrifice some things in that case, too.

"Quarter to six, if I'm lucky."

"Are you generally?"

"Am now."

"We are on holiday," Thomas tells him. "I am not going to wake you up before six in the bloody morning."

"You already did," Richard replies, cheeky and smug, and…

They're kissing again. Thomas threads his fingers in Richard's hair — it's longer than his is, even now that he's grown his back out some — and presses his scalp, getting joy from the way he hums, soft and satisfied, at the sensation. 

He flicks his tongue at Richard's upper lip, then feels awkward, given everything, and stops.

For a second, it seems like Richard isn't having it, but he settles after only a few moments more.

They pull away to lie there next to one another in serene silence for a little while longer before Thomas, unable to repress the urge, asks, "when does _Evelyn Price_ get up?"

Richard is quick on his feet as ever.

"He's on a working holiday. Eight or so."

"You're going to have to keep him around for two days, you know that."

It's easier to talk about than it should be. Almost _too_ easy. After all, one slip is all it would take.

"Won't be too difficult," Richard says flippantly. "Managed similar feats before."

"God, how many men have you – "

Thomas stops short before he can say the words that will make up the worst unintentional innuendo he can remember ever having said.

Richard, perhaps understanding this, laughs. "Comes in handy."

"I'll say."

"I'm very talented," he adds.

"Yeah," says Thomas, and, because he's apparently taken to clinging onto Richard for dear life whenever he has him near, forces his arm under his back and rests his head on his chest.

He's developing new habits around him.

He's not sure how he feels about the needy ones.

Though he pulls himself up a bit, Richard does nothing to discourage him from snuggling. He does, however, stroke at his back — a touch awkwardly — and murmur, "I wasn't teasing when I called you sweet."

Thomas huffs. "Yeah, you were."

"I meant it. I like it."

"Doesn't mean you weren't teasing," Thomas returns. His tone isn't as flippant as he intends for it to be.

"I like it," repeats Richard. "Wish I could see it more often, Mr Barrow."

With those words, any remaining resolve he had to take offense at this notion leaves him all at once.

Because he wishes he could see it more often, too.

"I love you," Thomas whispers.

"It's about time you said it back," comes the reply, smug.

"I love you," he says again, and before he knows it Richard is up off of his arm and pushing at his shoulders; he ends up on his back, staring up at him just as they'd started the day before.

"I'm not ready," Thomas manages, breathless, and Richard shakes his head.

"Nor am I," Richard says, "just wanted to look at you."

"What d'you call what we were doing before?"

Before he decided to latch onto him like a bear cub.

"Wanted to see you underneath me."

He swallows.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I said it already, didn't I?" — and then Richard's got his hands braced up by his shoulders and his legs around his hips, straddling him, and this seems like an odd choice of positions for what they've both agreed not to do, but the kiss is long and pleasant, just the soft brush of lips upon lips and no more tongue than is strictly necessary, but it's enough.

When he begins to pull away, Thomas sits up, following, puts his weight on his elbows and then his hands; before he knows it he's upright with Richard in his lap. 

His hand is on his cheek, and Thomas tilts his head into his palm.

"Were we going to go back to sleep, Mr Ellis?"

"Were we?"

Thomas turns his head to the side and kisses his hand.

He says nothing. He doesn't feel like he has to.

The last time they were in a position resembling this one — less than twelve hours ago — neither of them were nearly so calm as they are now. 

Richard flutters his fingers against his cheek. "May as well," he says softly. "When do _you_ get up in the morning?"

"Quarter to six, same as you."

"Yeah?"

"Have an alarm clock. Hallboy gets up at the same time."

Because it's just the two of them in the men's corridor now, and if his suspicions are correct, soon enough it'll be just him.

"Don't have either of those here," Richard tells him. 

"You make that sound more romantic than it is," given the circumstances. He starts to pull away, and Richard doesn't stop him.

But he can tell he's upset, even if he isn't showing it.

"Sorry," he says.

"You're right," murmurs Richard, and — so much for not stopping him — he wraps his arms around him and lays his head on his shoulder, speaks into his neck. "Just don't want you to be."

At least he isn't the only one clinging. His skin is warm against his own, his weight comforting. When he tilts his head a certain way his stubble scratches at his neck and shoulder.

His first impression was correct.

Richard's happier here. 

Has more room to breathe.

Thomas holds him in turn, fingers settled at the small of his back, palms on either side of his spine. "Who am I?" he asks, and it's not a change of subject so much as a return to one, but he's sure Richard will figure him out all the same. "If we're being other people."

It takes him a second, and then all he says is, "that we are." 

He doesn't miss the significance of the pause. 

"Well, then?"

"Called you something, didn't I?" he asks, and Thomas tries to remember. 

It all happened very fast, but… 

"Harris, think it was."

"Sounds right," Richard says, casual. It doesn't fit the way he's draped himself around Thomas's body. "Ask me again on that one when I'm more awake – for the rest, reckon it's easier to think of a bloke you know and aim to be more like him."

There is so much about Richard's life that Thomas could not possibly understand if he tried, and the events that lead to him _being like this_ almost certainly fall into that category.

"You're very experienced."

"Yeah," he says in the same tone of voice. He's not always prone to helping him understand, anyway. "Get by being quick on my feet, most of the time, but figured I ought to have something up my sleeve for this."

"Worked," Thomas says.

"Did what it needed to do."

If Thomas isn't mistaken, he's holding him a little more tightly now.

"Just be sure and use your upstairs voice; I'll manage the rest."

Thomas nods. He doesn't see the need to argue, nor to offer his help — he's got cards up his sleeves, himself, and he can play them if he needs to, but since Richard seems to be at his best when he's got control, he'll wait for a cue. 

Nice not being in charge for once.

Or rather, nice knowing that what he isn't in charge of is in capable hands.

"All this just to have two bloody days together," he says, bitter.

"If I had my way we'd have a place of our own."

The words don't hit his ears right.

They can't have.

Thomas stills.

As he said them Richard had begun to press kisses up and down his neck and below his jaw, light ones, lips closed; he's not yet stopped.

He's serious; it's terrifying.

"So," he says, willing his voice not to tremble. "When did you, er…"

"Hm?"

His lips send a vibration to his skin.

"The, er… the impersonating other people thing, when did that start?"

Richard pulls back and looks at him with raised eyebrows. Not having it.

"I've been wondering," Thomas continues, lamely.

"Have you been."

_Sorry._

Thomas nods.

Richard slides off of his lap and lies back down. He says nothing until Thomas, taking the hint, joins him.

"Always been good at it," he says idly. "Wasn't til the war I realised just how handy it could be."

All roads lead back to that, don't they.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

He reaches over, across Thomas's body, to take him by the wrist, and then he finds his hand.

He forces himself to close his eyes and let his fingers relax.

"How was that?" he says. His voice has too much breath in it; it's too strained. 

He wishes they could go back to ten minutes ago.

"Thomas, do you really want to talk about this?"

Okay, so this is a conversation about the war now.

"Well, we probably should," he says slowly. 

Talk about what happened last night, not about the being-somebody-else thing.

Richard sighs. He confirms his guess, murmuring, "you understand I've no right to talk where your hand is concerned."

His thumb passes over the inside of his wrist.

This he remembers.

He hugs Richard more tightly, holds him nearer. 

"Not the same."

"Beg to differ."

He almost sounds amused.

"It's not the same," Thomas repeats. "Blokes who are all right in the head don't go so far as that."

_Good work, you've called him wrong in the head._

"All right in the head."

"Well." He swallows. "I haven't got a right to talk either."

This seems to resolve any offense Richard might have taken. He may not actually have taken any, though. Thomas doesn't want to admit it, but he's hard to read sometimes. When he keeps his voice level and his poker face on, save for a quirk in the lips or raised eyebrows, if he's lucky.

But then, it's not like Thomas is a bloody mime, himself.

"I ever tell you the story, there?" Richard asks, and he tries to remember — he must not have, because all he can recall is that one little bit, that one thing. The truth is he'd been selfish when they'd talked about it (not that they'd really _talked,_ just they'd each shared the facts of the matter), thinking more about how they were alike and how they were different and everything with him in the picture, no thoughts just for Richard. Because he'd felt like he was understood.

"I don't think so."

"Do you mind terribly if I tell you now?"

Thomas shakes his head, then says, "I don't."

This is another thing that couldn't go in the Armistice Day letters.

"I don't need to tell you that the non-combat services saw combat," he says. 

Story time, then.

"That you do not," Thomas replies.

It's been fourteen years — more than a third of his life — and he's still bitter about that part.

"I'm sure I saw less of it than you did," Richard continues, "though that makes it worse, doesn't it."

Thomas makes a vague noise of dissent.

"We may have crossed paths at one point." He squeezes his hand. "Field ambulances retreating from the front, artillery supply advancing."

"Bet you hated that."

"Well, what goes up must come down."

Him and his sayings.

It's odd to think about the two of them as ever being in the same place back then.

Odder to think about how Richard could have been assigned to a field ambulance. To _his_ field ambulance. That they could have done more than crossed paths.

"Went both ways, besides."

Yeah, it did.

"Saw motor ambulance units on our way back to base sometimes, too. Always felt lucky they were headed there and we'd just been."

Richard pauses.

"I bloody hated going back," Thomas says suddenly, filling the blank space. "When we'd hand some bloke with his limbs blown off to the next post and then turn right back around and – "

He stops.

"You can go on," Richard says lightly.

"No," he can't. "No, we're talking about you," he says firmly, and then he adds, "would've hated your job. You call _me_ noble – "

"Wouldn't call distributing packets and rifles noble, Thomas, but be my guest if you like."

There's the difference between the two of them.

"Yeah, well, you're right I won't go that far, but at least in the RAMC when we get shot at it's against the bloody rules of the Red Cross, can't imagine you have the same luxury in motorcars full of ammunitions."

Richard strokes the back of his hand — absentmindedly, Thomas tells himself, but he knows that isn't it.

"Right," he says, still nonchalant in a way that is _almost_ but not actually irritating, "let's keep this in the past tense, Thomas, shall we?"

Fuck.

He _never_ does that.

Then, he never talks about the war, so how would he know what he does or doesn't do? He'd managed to sidestep the brunt of it when they'd met in the summer, and it's easier to pay attention to your words when you're penning them.

"Yeah," Thomas says, "fine," irritated at himself more than anything else.

Deep breath. He flexes his hand in Richard's own, curls his fingers. His grip is loose, but he doesn't let go of him.

"So."

"So?"

"You, er, were telling me…"

"Yeah," Richard says, "I was." He pauses for a half-second; Thomas curls up around him. "That's why I did it."

He can gather which _it,_ but the _why…_

"Didn't want to go back to it. Told my mum my leave was a day shorter than it was, meant to have a night in Paris before I was to be back on duty. Didn't pan out."

"Why, did she find out?"

"Christ, no. Never will, if I can help it – was a fucking mess, looking back, I don't know what I was thinking. Would've killed her to lose me, after…"

"Your brother," Thomas says, even though it doesn't need saying. 

The first time Richard swore — because it's been on his mind, as a stark contrast to the times when he likes that he's doing it — was closer to just now than anything he's heard since.

"Yeah."

He sighs.

"No, I just couldn't wait for it to be over. Had a night in Calais, instead. Figured there were worse places to spend my last hours on Earth."

This time Thomas does not say the obvious.

"Better places, too, 'course, but I didn't have much choice. If I'd planned far enough in advance… This was '16. I'd been in it about a year, less, actually, 'cause I started in autumn, but it may as well have been ten years. You understand. I made Corporal about halfway through the Somme. Wasn't a sergeant until '18, almost two years later on the dot. But that summer, remember clear as day — main risks to the service corp convoys was mines and shelling, actually, not shooting…"

Richard's talking now, really talking, and Thomas listens. He doesn't interrupt.

They have similar stories where the war is concerned.

That's the thing that stands out to him the most.

Aside from the part where he got his hand shot and Richard tried to hang himself.

"...sometimes I wish I'd had the courage," Richard finishes, bitter in a way Thomas can almost _taste_. "To get out of there alive but in pieces."

Because that's how he came back, himself, alive but in pieces — alive but _missing_ pieces.

"I don't think courage was your problem," Thomas murmurs. 

Richard hums. 

"Might have been."

"Glad you didn't have it, then," he says, into his shoulder but still insistent. "Glad you didn't manage it."

And that's selfish, too, because all he can think is _where would I be if I hadn't met you the summer before last._ If he hadn't been around to meet because he wasn't in the world anymore, and hadn't been for more than ten years. When all it would have taken was —

"I've upset you," Richard says.

"Was about time," Thomas replies. "Been upsetting you since we met."

"No, you haven't been."

"Yeah I have," he counters, but he kisses Richard on the neck. Sweetly. He'll give him that one.

"There's still time to get some more sleep," Richard says, rather transparently.

Thomas hums his assent.

But this is not the end of the conversation. Not just yet.

"I don't know how you manage at Downton."

And Thomas doesn't, either, but he hadn't exactly been thinking about it just now —

"Every time I set foot at port after that — only twice, mind, but Christ, I'll never be sailing to France again if I can help it, not if I've got to land there. Go out of my way not to use the one washroom at home, too, but _you…_ "

Oh, right.

Thomas could laugh.

"I don't have a choice," he finishes for him. It's an answer to the question and a simple fact of his existence at Downton Abbey.

He manages because he has to.

"Yeah."

"We make quite the pair, don't we, Mr Ellis," Thomas says softly, and when Richard doesn't say anything to that, he adds, "do you remember when you told me in London I asked – "

"Yeah."

Thomas squeezes his hand. 

"I, er…"

This is maybe more sincere than he's ready to be.

"I don't so much now. Wish they hadn't found me, I mean."

Richard, as he's been doing, and he's well and truly made it a habit now, rubs firm, soothing circles into his back. 

"Yeah," he says after a moment. "Yeah, Thomas, I don't want to leave a world with you in it."


	5. vanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's like.... a lot going on here
> 
>  **content notes:** adventurous sexual positions, body image, 1920s gender & sexuality vocabulary, talking in circles, mentions of homophobia, mentions of minor original character death, ~~~kink negotiation ~~~ (not really lmao)
> 
> anyway, i'll just throw this and run cause i'm embarrasssssssssssssed!

"Admiring yourself?" Richard asks, and he comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. He hasn't started dressing, either, and his bare chest is warm against Thomas's back.

Thomas drums his fingers on the top of the dressing table and huffs.

"So what if I am."

What he's actually doing is staring at the love bites from the night before.

There are several, blotches of pale red and purple all across his chest and collar, and his breath hitches for looking at them. He meets Richard's eyes in the mirror, then looks down at his right hand, now splayed against his hip bone, his left flat under his navel.

"I couldn't fault you for it; there's plenty to admire."

Thomas scoffs.

"Used to be, maybe." 

He's fishing for compliments and he knows it, but he'd be lying, too, if he said that it wasn't on the back of his mind. Bodies change, after all, and he's not as proud of his as he once was. He figures he's aging well, all things considered, and he's not _that_ old, but he sees the gray at his temples and the beginnings of lines in his face, recognises that he's shaped a little differently than in his youth.

It frightens him, in a way. He's never thought of himself as someone who would grow old.

"I like you well as you are now, Mr Barrow, and you're only getting better," says Richard, ever matter of fact, and Thomas laughs.

"Oh, so there's room for improvement?"

Richard kisses his cheek and sets his chin upon his shoulder. The scratch of his stubble sends a thrill through him. It is excessive and something he cannot help at all. "Wish you saw yourself like I do."

As if he's not a hundred times more vain than Richard is when it comes down to it, but he's not about to complain over being talked to like he isn't.

"How's that, Mr Ellis?"

"Got a mirror in front of us, don't we?"

He wants to be pedantic, say that Richard doesn't ordinarily look at him in the reverse, but before he can, Richard hums, long and low. The vibration tickles his shoulder and makes him laugh.

Thomas looks in the mirror again, but not at himself — it's odd, seeing Richard's reflection; it's _incredibly_ odd, but there's something about it…

"Christ, I certainly left some marks on you, didn't I," Richard says against the base of his neck, and then he kisses him there and opens his mouth and gets about leaving another one, and Thomas can see him doing it and feel it all at once, and then Richard draws his other hand up along his abdomen and ribs to rub at his nipple with his thumb, and Thomas can _see him doing it —_

He closes his eyes and gasps, lulls his head back unto Richard's shoulder. 

Thomas can feel him harden against his backside, and after a moment of consideration he grinds his hips, takes immense satisfaction in the sound Richard makes, short and high-pitched from his throat. 

God, this is happening fast.

"It's seven in the morning," he says, breathlessly, and Richard lifts his head up and laughs. 

"Do you have somewhere else to be?"

He laughs, too. "No, I – "

Richard pinches his chest, and Thomas yelps.

"Playing to win, are you," he says after, trying to sound scolding. It doesn't work, he's breathless and weak-kneed, feels like he needs to sit down, but doing this while standing is so arousing enough in and of itself that he thinks he can manage.

"Don't I always?" Richard returns, and then he hums, rolls his hips against Thomas's own, and _doesn't that remind him of something_ —

"Bloody hypocrite," Thomas says, "didn't you tell me off for wanting it before noon in July – _fuck,_ are you _biting_ – "

He bites his lip and whines, and when he feels like he might buckle Richard holds him steady against him, hand steadily moving lower along his abdomen.

"Can I have your thighs," he says into his ear, voice deep and low and loving; it's _unbearable,_ and Thomas nods.

"Yeah," he says, "yeah, is it still – "

But Richard is a step ahead of him, and Thomas is only swaying on his feet for a moment before he's back, one hand at his chest like before. 

Thomas shifts his weight and parts his legs just enough, impatient, leans back against him and makes a point of sounding desperate, panting.

He _is_ desperate.

And soon he isn't disappointed. Richard holds his hip with a newly slick hand as he positions himself, and then he's there — this is the first time they've done this, and Thomas decides on a half second's evidence that he loves it, the feeling of his cock thrusting between his thighs, the friction up against him.

He forces himself to look again into the mirror, finds that he can't tear his eyes away from his own erection, from how close Richard's hand is to it.

"Most beautiful man I've ever met," Richard says into his shoulder, "took my breath away the first time I ever saw you – "

No way is _that_ true, but the thought of it makes his head rush. Thomas isn't sure if he can speak without slurring and gasping, but his nerve comes back to him and he doesn't have to: he puts his hand on top of Richard's and guides it to his prick before wising up and leaning forward to put both of his hands on the wood in front of him, because he knows he'll fall if he doesn't and it's a wonder he's even made it this long —

Into his ear Richard breathes, "I love you," that's all, "I love you, Thomas," and Thomas shifts his weight and tenses his legs, and Richard _moans._

They're closer to the mirror than they were when they started, especially now that Thomas is bracing himself against the vanity for dear life, and being so close and able to watch as Richard thrusts between his legs and strokes him, mouth on his back and eyes heavy lidded as he gazes at Thomas in the mirror… 

He closes his eyes, tucks and untucks his pelvis.

He feels Richard's bollocks at his legs and the tip of his prick up against his own and thinks about that, only that, that this beautiful man he loves has him bent over standing and is _almost_ fucking him, so close to what he wants, and with each stroke of his hand Thomas grinds back into him, a give and take.

"Eyes open, love," and then when he doesn't, Richard adds, "look at yourself, Thomas, that's it."

He lifts his head and does, and there he is, red-faced and panting and pink and purple all at the base of his neck, hair wet to his forehead, and it's — well, frankly it's embarrassing, but somehow in a pleasant way. He's also mesmerised, _is that what I look like, is this how he sees me, when he's alone and taking care of himself is the Thomas he thinks of this one, this desperate one that I don't recognise…_

His idle questioning is answered when Richard says, "Christ, I love you like this," a breath, "love you when you want me."

"Must always love me then."

"Oh, that I do, Thomas," and then he's biting his fucking shoulder again, and he wraps his palm around his cock and twists.

Thomas moans; he says, "please."

"There you are, love," breathes Richard, "be good for me." He tightens his grip and rubs intently along the length of him, still thrusting, still with their hips flush.

"I," Thomas starts, but he can't finish.

"Doing well, Thomas," and at those words he feels his blood rush and his head spin. He starts to cry out but manages to stifle it at the last second, clenching his teeth just after the first sound has left his mouth.

"Hush, love," Richard says, and this is probably going to actually bloody kill him it _really_ is, "there you are, now – " 

And they come at the same time, Thomas thrusting into his hand and squeezing his thighs just enough, careful.

Everything is a blur but for Richard's chest sturdy against his back.

When they've both finished Thomas fights to get control over himself, deep, gasping breaths, but for whatever reason he can't stop himself from smiling, and that's not bloody helping. "God, what the hell was that," he manages, and Richard laughs, rubbing his hand up and down his arm, keeping him supported. "And I thought _I_ was vain – "

"You are vain," Richard tells him. He is back to his normal self already.

Thomas harrumphs.

"Doesn't mean you're not."

"Had a man pull that on me once, the mirror trick," says Richard. Slowly, Thomas straightens his knees and leans back against him, sighing. "Liked it."

"I see why."

His head is spinning.

"And I've always liked the method," Richard adds.

"Very Greek," Thomas says wryly — or, tries to. He doesn't have his voice yet; it's a whisper.

"Come to that, I don't know how you're still standing," Richard replies, smiling, and Thomas thinks, _nor do fucking I._ "Let's get you cleaned up."

Probably a good idea, seeing as Richard's come is all over his thighs.

This is the most time he's ever spent in a washroom in a few days' time, he's certain of _that_ , but odd as the thought is it's not something he's entirely got a problem with. Giving Richard a bath yesterday is not something he is likely going to forget anytime soon.

They don't go quite that far, now, but Richard wipes him down and gives him a shave (and doesn't he wish he'd thought of that earlier; he'll have to return the favour tomorrow morning) and stops short only of actually dressing him, but he does give him a once over and spends a long moment adjusting the knot of his tie in a way that's irksome until he says, "didn't need it, really, just wanted to be close to you," and…

He can't find anything to fault in that.

During breakfast they hardly speak — it's uncanny pretending to be people they're not, for him, at least; Richard seems like he's having fun — and the minute they're back in the room, rain once again pounding against the window, Thomas kicks off his shoes and gets back into his shirtsleeves, jacket and waistcoat draped unceremoniously on the edge of the bed, tie loose around his neck, because he's on holiday and he _can._

Looking at the dressing table makes him blush and he knows it, so he avoids doing so as much as possible.

They spend the morning in idleness: Thomas does the crossword of the day's paper (it's the bloody Grantham Journal down here, which feels like some sort of punishment, an unneeded reminder that they're not in the real world) and works some more on the cryptic from a week ago he brought with him, reads a chapter in his book, writes in his diary after all, reads some more, smokes a cigarette.

"You make me want to take it up," Richard says, and Thomas glances over at him from his seat by the window.

He's being improper and revelling in it, leaning back in the chair with his stockinged feet resting on the windowsill, and Richard is watching him. Entranced. He's revelling in that, too, being looked at in such a way. He has to wonder how long he's been sitting there with his eyes on him, and he almost asks.

But he only says, "don't," and he lets his eyes wander, himself. 

Richard, fully dressed save for his shoes, is turned from the bureau, arm slung over the top of the chair. He did his hair this morning, because _Evelyn Price_ would not have gotten up to anything in the night that could possibly alter the work of a week's worth of Brilliantine, and Thomas sort of hates it. 

Not how it looks.

What it means. Or represents, rather. That they've got people other than each other upon whom they need to make good impressions, be they in service or just in the world at large.

...he does _prefer_ it natural, though, he won't deny that.

He takes a slow drag again, feels the smoke hot in his mouth; the sensation is as much an ease to his nerves as the substance.

"Didn't say I would, Mr Barrow," Richard returns, blithe as always, "only that I want to, looking at you."

"Look all you like," Thomas says. He doesn't, himself, only meets his gaze before turning his head to stare out the window. The rain's coming down in sheets again; the inside of the window is fogged up. On impulse he presses his fingers (he's wearing his glove again) to the glass: he'd never dare touch a window at Downton, and he's got nowhere else to do it but here, so if he's ever going to… The dew is cold on his fingertips. When he pulls his hand away he can see the village square down below through the cleared-up smudges.

Corby is utterly deserted, like everyone's been washed away.

"I do like."

Thomas stares out into the mist, a feeling he can't describe budding in his chest.

"Very much."

And back at him. Richard's got a devious half-smile on his face that makes his heart skip beats, like when he asked him to watch him undress in London — it had been warm then, stuffy with the humidity of summer and the pressing heat of the city. It's cold, now.

"You ever try it?" asks Thomas. Meaning smoking.

"No," he says. He tilts his head thoughtfully. "Never cared to 'til a minute ago. Always been a delicate bloke."

Thomas coughs impolitely.

"I don't see the harm in saying it, Thomas."

The feeling he can't describe leaves him, and a different one forms, in his gut instead of his lungs, an uncomfortable and unwelcome weight. Knotted.

"Well, you clearly haven't got a problem with playing at being _normal,_ " Thomas says pointedly. Tough not to be pointed when he feels like this, because he's no stranger to it, is he. "If I didn't know better I'd be asking after your wife and baby like the rest of this place."

Lucky those people were leaving after breakfast; Thomas wouldn't be able to take two full days of it.

He hasn't asked about the photographs in the wallet yet, either, and he's not sure if he will.

Richard raises his eyebrows. "And what's that got to do with it?"

He shrugs.

It should be obvious. It would be obvious, to anyone who bothered to think about it for more than half a second.

"It's pretending, is all it is," Richard continues, a little too gentle. 

"Don't call yourself what they call you," Thomas returns, a little too sharp.

He's got to make this cigarette last, because he's only got the one for the day, but the way this conversation is headed is making that difficult… deep down, he doesn't really want to kick the habit, no matter what he's told Baxter and Mrs Hughes, and he knows it.

Times like these remind him why.

He tells himself he can always go buy more. They're not on a bloody farm.

"Rather it be me saying it than them."

Blasé like it doesn't mean a thing at all.

 _You should know better,_ he wants to say, _you should know better than anyone._

"Don't see how you can feel that way when it's not true to begin with."

"Thomas…"

They lock eyes.

A tense moment passes.

It is Richard who breaks first. He turns back to the desk with a small sigh.

"This has very little to do with you," he says carefully.

"You're not _delicate,_ " and his voice is flat and rough around the edges. "It's not a funny joke."

"I was sincere when I said it," says Richard.

Thomas watches him from the back for only a few seconds before he has to turn away.

For some reason, he's tempted to open the window. 

"I can be more than one thing at once, Thomas."

Not so blithe anymore.

"Not in their eyes," Thomas counters, and he swings his legs down from the windowsill and sits up straight, rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

He doesn't need to specify who _they_ are.

"What about in yours?"

He balks.

"Well, we're not talking about what I think."

"Yours is the only opinion I care about."

"You flatter me, Mr Ellis," he says dryly.

Richard doesn't say anything to that, which is how Thomas realises he's actually upset him.

The feeling is mutual, but he gives in, rising to his feet and crossing over to him.

"Look," he says, laying his free hand on his shoulder, and Richard tilts his head back to glance up at him. 

He doesn't know what to say, though, so he takes from his cigarette again, turns his head to exhale.

"Look, I…"

"You are handsome with that thing in your mouth," Richard tells him, all casual again. It's an obvious attempt at a diversion, and where on any other occasion he might take the chance to flirt, Thomas only huffs, and then grabs the ashtray from the desk and stubs it out. "Thomas, if it bothers you that much…"

"I'm not _bothered._ "

This earns him raised eyebrows, and then Richard's back to looking at the book in front of him on the desk.

"Aren't you?" he asks.

Because they've talked already about how he's touchy.

"You've got more reason to be than I have," he mutters.

"Why is that, I wonder."

He doesn't know what to say to that.

Or, he does, but he doesn't want to say it, because it doesn't feel especially nice to admit when he's fucked up.

Richard shrugs his hand off of his shoulder and stands; he turns around, clasps Thomas's hands in his own…

And then they're in bed, and Thomas is underneath him with the wind knocked out of him.

He blinks.

Richard kisses his nose and rolls off of him, so that they're lying next to each other, legs hanging off the foot of the bed.

"Sometimes I feel like I don't know you," he says.

Ever nonchalant, as though his saying that doesn't make him feel like he's been punched in the stomach.

"Yeah," Thomas starts, "well…"

But he doesn't know how to finish.

"You ever feel the same way?"

He has no idea how Richard plans to get them back around to the original subject, here, which frustrates him more than he cares to admit.

"Sometimes."

He can admit that, at least.

"Yeah," Richard says, "Yeah, I thought so."

And he sounds it, just thoughtful, not accusing or demanding or upset or anything like that, but it raises the hair on his neck all the same.

Thomas doesn't say anything.

"Why?" prods Richard, and then his hand is at his wrist, gentle. 

"Er."

"Well, if you've got a reason…"

"You're the one who asked."

"Yes," interlacing their fingers. "Suppose I did."

He's not going to share his own; Thomas can see that much.

God, there's got to be...

"You put airs on," Thomas mutters eventually. He traces circles into the back of Richard's hand with his thumb. "When you write me."

He expects him to argue, but he only says, "yeah."

A pause.

"I put airs on a lot of the time, Thomas."

Being agreed with always surprises him. As a matter of course; in general. He hasn't gotten used to it — three years as butler, three years of being deferred to and looked up to, even, by some people, and it takes him aback every damn time.

Even when it's Richard.

 _Especially_ when it's Richard, in this case. When it's something like this.

"Well, don't," he tells him, flustered. "Not with me."

"Not so easy as that."

"Not so easy being…" Lied to? 

"Yeah, I know."

This discussion is making him really goddamn nervous.

"And – and all I get from you is letters," Thomas says quietly. If he talks, the feeling might go away, but it also might get worse, so he may as well go with the choice that Richard evidently wants him to make. "Because we don't get anything else, and I don't get to see you every day, do I, like bloody normal people do, and you…"

"You know well as I we can't be completely honest in writing."

"I know," he returns shortly, feeling chastised, which isn't fair when he's not done anything _wrong_.

"Yeah." Richard takes a deep breath. "I"m sorry, I – Christ, Thomas. I wish it were different."

"Don't lie to me."

"Thomas, there is nothing on Earth that I wish for more than that – "

"No," and he squeezes his hand, "no, I meant – I know you don't _lie_ to me exactly," God does he hope he is right in that, "not technically, but you're… you're different, in person, and I… well, unless you think I am, too – "

Richard bends his arm, lifting their hands, then dropping them. He huffs.

"No, you've got the same voice on paper."

Something about the way he says that makes him reply, "all the etiquette books used to say to do that."

This makes Richard laugh.

"Read those same ones as a child, I reckon."

"Not as well as I did, apparently."

"Or maybe I just decided to do something different with the knowledge, Mr Barrow."

There's a pattern to when he calls him that and when he just says _Thomas,_ and he is beginning to figure it out.

Thomas hums. He thinks he understands what he means.

Richard goes on, "I don't much like who I am, Thomas."

...and maybe this is how they're getting back to the original subject.

"Don't much like being Richard Ellis."

"I don't especially fancy being Thomas Barrow, myself."

But…

"But you are him, most of the time."

"Er, I'd say I always am, actually, don't know about you..."

Richard lets go of his hand, sits up; he trails off. When Thomas starts to do the same, he holds up his hand, palm toward him like _stay._

So he stays, resting his head on his hand and looking up at him again.

He's looking down at him, too, but then he isn't; he's staring out the window.

"Can't go anywhere in London without being offered a cigarette or asked for a light," he says after a moment. Blasé like he's telling a story that has nothing to do with him. Thomas suspects it is going to have _everything_ to do with him, going to be some deep down confession, because that is, he thinks, how Richard works: the more personal it is, the more it belongs to someone else. The more distance he gives it. "Being a working class bachelor, I mean." 

Because they are each both of those things, officially.

"Do you know what I tell people?"

Thomas shakes his head. He's about to say so aloud when he looks down at him again and notes it, then he's back to watching the rain.

It's like something out of the sketchbook of someone who matters, looking at him. Study of man in profile, from below, gray light.

"I tell them I don't smoke anymore, on account of my lungs. That they've been bad since the war."

"You could just say no thank you," Thomas says.

"That's just it," he says. Soft but with an edge to it. "I can't. Came up with it off the top of my head once when a man actually asked, and now I offer it up even when they don't."

"You don't owe anybody an explanation for not _smoking._ "

"I owe everybody an explanation for everything, Thomas," he says wryly. "Wouldn't be here with you right now if I didn't have them to give."

Thomas can't argue with that, and he knows it.

"Used to be bad at it," continues Richard. "Long time ago. When I first moved to London. Didn't know how to balance things out. People get suspicious if you give 'em too many details, unless you come off as the sort who shares a bit too much of himself on a regular basis."

He has really thought this through, hasn't he. 

Attention to detail.

No wonder he's such a good valet.

"...and I was timid as anything in those days. Believed the best of everybody."

 _You still do that,_ Thomas wants to say, _you are the most optimistic man-like-us I have ever met in my life,_ but it would be unwelcome commentary, so he keeps his mouth closed and his ears open.

He used to be bad at that, too, keeping his mouth shut.

"Got over it eventually, though. Takes nerve to get anywhere at Buckingham Palace."

"Well, you don't want for that."

Even from down here Thomas can see him smile.

"Gathered it in bits and pieces over the years," he says. "Had to."

Sounds like it.

Thomas reaches out to set his hand on his knee, his gloved one; Richard takes it. He taps his thumb on each of his fingers, almost playful.

"Don't need to give anyone an idea about me, and it's the little things that do the trick. Like smoking, whether I do or I don't."

"And they'll get an idea if you don't, then."

"Have done."

"See, I've always heard the opposite," Thomas says flippantly, "been told it's a bad habit for a _proper man_ – "

"Figure it can go either way, can't it? Same as — right, say – suppose you'll have heard this one before – say you've got two blokes. One grew up with a doting mother and the other grew up with a cold one."

He has indeed heard this one before – not whatever the joke is going to be, he suspects Richard's making that up as he goes along (but even if he isn't it's not like Thomas has had anyone else to joke about this with in the last decade), but the gist of the idea behind it.

"Now, tell me, Mr Barrow," Richard says, with false gravitas, an Oxford don who speaks in Broad Yorkshire. "Why are these fellows homosexual?"

"Well, it was the influence of the mother, of course," Thomas drawls.

"Two different temperaments, these mothers had."

"Doesn't matter. Still Mum's fault."

Richard laughs.

"Yeah," and the performance is over with, now, as soon as it started. "Yeah, I reckon it's like that with everything, mums and cigarettes and whatever all else — you were athletic, weren't you?" 

"As a boy," Thomas returns. "Still am, actually."

When he gets the chance to be.

Richard nods.

"Cecil was, too," thoughtful.

"But you weren't?"

"Hardly," Richard says, and he almost laughs again. Thomas can't tell if the sudden joviality is false or not. "But if I had been it wouldn't've mattered. Anything on a pitch, anything with a ball involved, he shined. Above everyone else, he was just that sort of man. He was – he shined everywhere."

"So do you."

"Not like he did, Thomas. Nowhere close – but I'll thank you for the compliment."

"Everyone loves you," he counters, and Richard looks down at him with an unreadable look on his face.

"Not everyone _knows_ me."

Which must be the point of all this.

Thomas gazes up at him and feels like he is missing something. "The way you're talking you make it sound like nobody does."

"I don't know that I do myself, to be perfectly honest with you, Thomas, so I take what I can get that seems like… like it fits."

Lot to ponder there.

Thomas can connect the dots.

"And you think _delicate_ …"

"I do, rather."

"Okay," Thomas says. He won't argue. He sees the logic in it, or he sees how Richard sees the logic in it, even if it still sort of makes his skin crawl. He's not going to go around calling _himself_ an artist or something any time soon, and he doesn't see how it fits, exactly, but if it has very little to do with him...

"This coming from a man who won't use the word _queer_ ," Thomas says, eyebrows raised.

"There are nicer ways of putting it and all."

"Men like us?" Thomas says, and he pokes him.

"Men like us," says Richard. "Sort of – s'almost socialist, isn't it, solidarity and whatnot."

Thomas snorts. "And _this_ coming from a man who _works for the bloody Crown…_ "

"I got a letter from you this summer that told in no uncertain terms of – "

" _Daisy's_ the socialist, I only happen to vote Labour – "

Richard leans over and kisses him.

Thomas kisses back.

"The Household's full of Tories," Richard says, still with his lips practically on Thomas's, bloody hell, "not looking forward to May, myself."

"Come vote with us."

Only Tory on staff at Downton is bloody Carson, and he's not actually on staff anymore. Mrs Hughes has been lamenting it, though, apparently he kicked up a fuss in the summer at the idea of _Daisy_ having a say in anything.

Like his wife had gained nothing from the development. 

He's got no idea how that marriage works.

Thomas is very much looking forward to May, himself, even if he's not looking forward to Daisy losing her head over handing in a ballot for the first time. Good for her, of course, but he's sure he'll want to stick her in the scullery and lock it at some point, the way she keeps on these days. Her voice gets tiring.

"If only," says Richard, and then he's climbed all the way back onto the bed. Thomas curls up next to him, tugs at his tie and then his lapels. _Please take these things off,_ he wants to say, _please let me take them off you,_ but he hasn't got a good reason to want it. He's not in the mood.

"We're not really going to talk about politics, are we," he says dryly.

"No."

"What _are_ we going to talk ab – "

This is better than talking, of course. 

He settles his hand in Richard's hair, tugs him nearer instead of lifting his head, and he is rewarded with the sound of Richard sighing into his mouth, pressing his lips to his, the tentative touch of his tongue.

When it's over, Thomas finds he can't stop fucking _smiling._

His temperament is changing like the weather.

Richard's similarly affected. He rubs his knuckles into the side of Thomas's head, soothing an itch he didn't know was there.

"Folks'll have called you both those things, I suppose," he says gently, and Thomas knows what he means and how he means it.

"Among other things."

"Not kindly."

Thomas shrugs.

"Been a while since the worst of it." He pauses. "Well, worst of it I can really remember was a year and a half ago."

Everything before then, or a lot of it, at least, for several years, pales in comparison.

"Bloody hated it," he adds, when Richard doesn't say anything. "Hated it from the moment I heard the whistles."

"Wasn't just you."

Watching from afar.

They've talked about that, naturally. They've been over that night with one another several times since it happened, and now they're probably about to again.

"They weren't nice," Thomas says.

"I reckon that's an understatement."

"Yeah, you reckon correct." He takes a deep breath. "All my life, I – every time I get a chance to feel like a regular person, something happens to remind me I'm not, and I should expect it, at this point, but…"

It is exhausting.

"But?"

"I mean, I did, actually."

"Did…"

"Expect it. Just sort of went about assuming everything good wasn't gonna last. For a long time."

"A man can't live like that."

"Yeah, well, talked about that one, too, haven't we."

Richard strokes his hair from the top of his head down to his neck; he closes his eyes. "Funny how it works, isn't it, the moment you start to think something'll shake out…"

"It did shake out in a way," Thomas tells him. "In the end."

"Not over yet, is it?"

A kiss to his forehead, and Thomas keeps his eyes closed.

"No," he says.

They lie there in silence, Richard caressing him in a way that sends a tingling feeling down his spine, and he drinks in the feeling of it, the sound of him breathing, the weight beside him.

They speak at the same time:

"Sorry for losing my head."

"That's why I don't say it."

Thomas says, "you first."

His hand stills; he turns his face up toward him.

"Only ever use queer in our sense when I'm pretending I'm not one."

"And?"

It sounds more brusque than he means for it to, but Richard seems to take no offense. He can tell, sometimes, when Thomas means to be sharp and when he doesn't. Not always, but still more than anyone else can.

"I just remember I used it then, is all… your turn."

"You can be delicate if you want to," Thomas says mildly. 

"And?"

Ha.

"And I think it's daft that you do, but I like you anyway."

"The highest compliment, Mr Barrow." 

He trails his fingers down along Thomas's jaw, making him shiver.

"Eyes open," Richard murmurs, a smile in his voice.

That also makes him shiver, given the last time he heard those words, but he obliges. "Not going to forget that any time soon," he says.

And Richard _is_ smiling.

"That's what I hoped for."

"Yeah, 'cause you were thinking very far into the future when you had me bent over the fucking dressing table…"

"I may have been."

"I do not believe that at all," Thomas tells him. "Not for a single second — you were thinking of one thing only, Mr Ellis, and that was – "

"My silly boy."

He splutters; once again Richard takes the opportunity to kiss him.

 _Damn you,_ Thomas thinks, _damn you, Richard Ellis;_ he reaches up to cup his cheek in his hand as he returns the kiss, eager. His skin is warm underneath his palm. 

In many ways doing this feels like the first time every time, new and exciting and exhilarating, not only the real, tangible physical sensations — Richard's hand on his face or his head or his jaw as he takes his lower lip between his own, grazing with his teeth and stroking with his tongue — but the mental ones, too, the feelings. The sparks in his head and the butterflies in his stomach. Sometimes there is an urgency to it and sometimes there isn't; right now there is. Right now Richard is letting him relax onto the quilt underneath them and drawing circles at his scalp with his fingertips and pressing his lips to his like he has to or he'll die, and Thomas opens his mouth and yields and feels like he could melt.

Unlike the first time, more often than not the two of them get to finish it uninterrupted by Andrew bloody Parker.

Richard presses his chin up with two fingers and pecks him at the corner of his mouth before straightening out beside him.

One last caress to his jaw, and then they're not touching any longer.

"You're good at that," Richard tells him.

Thomas shrugs. "Wasn't doing very much."

"Good at taking it."

"Don't make me blush," he says wryly.

"I mean it, Thomas, you're – you're good at a lot of things, sexual or otherwise," interesting phrasing, there, "and you don't get told so very often, do you."

"I don't know where you might've gotten that impression," Thomas says, sarcastic. He's probably put the idea into a letter at some point. He tells him all sorts of things in letters, even if he doesn't always get all sorts of things back… but maybe that's going to change now.

"Noticed you, er… like when I encourage you."

Well.

 _That_ came out of bloody nowhere.

Thomas tenses, despite how tranquil he was a minute ago, despite Richard's presence, despite his own desire to bloody keep calm for once.

"Meaning…" he says, prompting, like he doesn't already know the answer. He is being coy, and it is not going to work, but it won't be for lack of trying.

"When I've got you in bed," Richard returns idly, "or elsewhere, as it happens."

"I guess," he says, cautious.

"Tell you you're doing well. That sort of thing."

"I guess," Thomas repeats.

Suddenly feeling awkward – not just feeling awkward, feeling small, Thomas shifts in bed, back and forth. He senses Richard's hands getting restless beside him, and reaches over to take them once more, because that might help him, too.

"Do you not?" asks Richard, searching, but he stills the moment Thomas touches him, huffs in a way that might have gone unnoticed if Thomas wasn't paying so much attention.

It's his right to see those things, when Richard has apparently been paying him some attention of his own, and too much, if you ask him. Despite the awareness that they've gone and bared their souls to one another multiple times in the past few days, Thomas still feels like he's given more than he's received, and the man remains something of a tough nut to crack — and sometimes he can get past the shell, or whatever, to continue the metaphor, but…

There are moments when he wouldn't know one way or another what his feelings are were it not for what his hands and face are doing, the for-an-instant stillness and the occasional fiddling. 

Whereas Richard need only _look at him_ … and now after what, three or four days worth of time in bed together in their lives he's gone and figured out what makes him tick already —

"'S'embarrassing to talk about," Thomas mutters, "when we're not, er…"

"In the middle of it."

Richard intertwines their fingers. 

"Yeah."

"Don't feel you have to."

Well, when he says it like that he doesn't have much of a choice, does he; of course he feels like he bloody has to — and he doesn't need him to do the endless patience thing about this, too.

"Well, I should," he says brusquely, because it isn't a lie exactly, "and there's not much to bloody say, is there, but, erm," and Thomas takes a deep breath, squeezes his hand for lack of anything more appropriate to do, "I – er, so long as you're not…" (there's really no good way to talk about this) "don't treat me like I'm a _dog_ ," and Richard catches himself midway through a laugh, "but if you…"

"Hm?"

"I do like it, yeah, but don't…"

Don't what? It's not like he can just tell him not to make a thing of it without coming off in entirely the wrong way. And the last time anyone else had anything to say on this subject he was twenty years old, so he's probably liking it too much… at least he already knows he's got a thing for that sort of talk. It'd be mortifying if Richard had figured it out before he himself did, and it's mortifying enough already.

It's not like anyone's going to tell him _good work_ outside of the fucking bedroom, after all.

Richard ventures, "wasn't… too much this morning, then."

Oh.

The way he says that sort of sheds a different light on the nature of this conversation.

"No," Thomas says flatly, and then he takes a deep breath, exhales all at once. "Er," stilted, "you could even…"

He's really going to say this out loud, isn't he.

"...could even do it more, if you, erm, if you wanted."

"Was worried I might've been laying it on too thick," Richard says casually, airy like it's a matter of no consequence, but Thomas can tell he means it.

So there's something, at least.

Comes and goes.

"Look, if we weren't… like you said, if we weren't _in the middle of it,_ I wouldn't want you to bloody talk to me like I'm – "

"I understand, Thomas," Richard interrupts, gentle. He rolls onto his side and reaches over to settle his hand on his cheek.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Well, I don't."

Eyebrows raised and lips closed, Richard tilts his head at hin, prompting, but if Thomas has his way this conversation is over.

At least where he's concerned, so he says, before they can get into a whole discussion about why hearing the words _good Thomas there you are love_ said soft into his ear in Richard's unreasonably melodic voice makes his fucking cock throb more than anything else ever could, "anything I should know about you?"

And Richard just shrugs. "We'll figure that out on our way, won't we," he answers. That glint in his eye is back.

Now it is Thomas's turn to raise his eyebrows.

"That was the sort of question you're meant to say yes or no to," he says shortly.

But Richard only laughs. "So was mine."

"Can never tell with you."

"No?"

"No," he says shortly.

And Richard doesn't say anything… to that.

"I'm enjoying it," he says casually. "Learning what you like… turns you on being talked up, too, doesn't it? When I call you handsome?"

"It may," Thomas mutters. 

He knows he's being petulant.

"You were preening."

Thomas hums and leans into his hand, turns his head to kiss his palm.

"You're all sweet again," Richard murmurs after a moment. He drums his fingers along Thomas's jawbone. "I'll have to give you the real thing soon enough."

There is a thrill down his spine at the thought, even though he's already exhausted and satisfied and this conversation is among the most awkward ones they've ever had.

Still, he's hoping he has enough stamina to get through this holiday of theirs; he hasn't had this much time alone with a man since… well, there was their meeting in the summer, but they'd done other things, then.

Strikes him as unlikely that they'll care to now.

For lack of anything better to do, Thomas lifts his head, takes Richard's thumb into his mouth and sucks.

"You and your mouth," says Richard mildly, not for the first time in his life. He presses up behind Thomas's teeth; it's strangely pleasant. "There's another thing, isn't there, Mr Barrow, since we were speaking of _mothers_ …"

Thomas doesn't miss the way Richard shivers when he hums around him.

"...Dr Freud wouldn't mind having a word…"

Oxford don Ellis making his entrance once again.

Thomas is well-read enough that he knows it would be best to ignore that remark.

"There's the backtalk," he goes on, and Thomas closes his eyes and thinks of early this morning, of having him in his mouth, because how _else_ is he meant to distract himself, "the smoking, as we have said, the cocksu – _ow,_ Christ – "

"You deserved that," Thomas tells him, annoyed. 

He's sucking his own thumb now.

"There's my point," Richard returns, eyebrows raised. He shakes out his hand.

"No, it isn't."

"You must admit, Thomas, you do like having things in your mouth."

"Not bleeding, are you?" asks Thomas, ignoring the comment. He didn't think he'd bit him that hard.

"No," he says, too pleasantly. 

And then he puts one fingertip to Thomas's lips, _hush._

The man really doesn't learn.

Richard tugs on his lower lip, gentle, and Thomas loses his breath and thinks _fine, it's not like I didn't already bloody know this about myself anyway_ and opens his mouth — and then Richard is halfway across the room.

"We ought to head down to luncheon," he says airily. "Go through the motions and all."

Prick.


	6. tangier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content notes:** opening in the middle of a sex scene, talking about homophobia, talking about FEELINGS, talking about sex, colonialism jokes? sort of?, discussion of a european city that was really nice in the 1920s and isn't anymore so there's some unintended dramatic irony there, buckets of praise kink, bodily fluids. mentions of/implied prostitution, depression, past negative sexual experiences, criminalized homosexuality. i think there's also more swearing than normal?
> 
> for the record this is actually a very lighthearted chapter! there's just a lot of stuff in it. almost 7k words worth of stuff to be exact. the google docs title of this chapter is "chapter 6.1" so that tells you how well my outlining process is going.

"Isn't this what you think of, Thomas," Richard is saying, lips near to his neck and his thigh between his legs, and Thomas is fumbling as best as he can with his collar but it's hard enough doing that one handed when it's not his left and he's not weak in the fucking knees, "when you're alone," and he doesn't say it like a question that needs answering but Thomas gasps out a "yes" all the same.

Even if he wanted to he couldn't move, couldn't pull away: Richard is being oh-so-careful but his grip is still firm at his arm and shoulder, he's still strong with the press of his hips and legs, keeps him held in place with his back straight up against the wall.

Richard's hand joins his before swatting it away entirely, and then he's undoing the buttons of his shirt like they're nothing, one after the other slipping his fingers between the placket.

"Lucky I took your tie off already."

"Am I," Thomas breathes.

"Lucky I know what I'm doing."

As cocky as he can manage: "do you?" 

And by way of an answer Richard pulls his shirt aside, shifts the neckline of his vest and puts his lips to his skin.

"Why do you like _biting me so much,_ " says Thomas, but he tugs his shirt further down off his shoulder, tilts his head to the side. He likes being bitten, of course. Richard stops, laughs, lips grazing his skin.

"If I keep doing it it'll help you remember me better," he replies, "next time I can't be with you in person."

He's at his braces, now, and Thomas thinks _God you are really going to do this you are really going to undress me right here and do something with me against the fucking wall;_ his cock throbs.

"Next time you're touching yourself."

Thomas presses his head back against the wall and tries to breathe as Richard lifts his head, drags the strap off of his shoulder and then brings his hand directly to the fly of his trousers.

"Won't be any time soon, will it, how you've been so far."

"God," Thomas says, his hips bucking on their own toward Richard's palm held still _right in front of him_ when he was pressing him a moment ago bloody fucking hell, "fuck, blimey – "

"Wish I could be there to watch when it happens," Richard says devilishly. He's grinning, somehow still has full control over himself. It must come and go with him, and Thomas wishes it would _go,_ because he's in a daze and he can tell and it just isn't _fair,_ "return the favour from last night, talk you through daydreaming about my prick – "

"You have no bloody shame at all," he manages, and then they're kissing each other furiously, hands in each other's hair, disheveling.

That's when there's a noise from the corridor.

A loud one.

They both freeze.

Without saying a word Richard actually fucking does his trousers back up for him, and Thomas whimpers, bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut.

" – sorry."

Thomas shushes him, turns his head toward the wall and presses his ear up against it.

"We should've – "

"Shut _up,_ " Thomas hisses. 

There are voices, a man and a woman, laughter, a door opening and closing — from the sound of it, not one adjacent to or across from where they are, but Thomas's heart is still pounding. It takes another minute of intent listening before he can breathe normally again, and by then the tension is fully back into his shoulders and his mind is racing.

The passage is once more quiet. The noise was probably somebody dropping a suitcase or something.

But if they can hear _it…_

"Not the only young couple around anymore," he says bitterly.

"It is a holiday," Richard says softly. 

"Why would anybody come here."

"We didn't expect to get so lucky as we did."

"As we _thought_ we did."

"Thomas…"

And he sets his hand upon his undressed shoulder, leans forward and presses their foreheads together. His thumb is moving in little circles at the head of his collarbone; when he tilts his head as though to begin a kiss, Thomas presses his lips into a line and shakes his head a quarter of an inch.

Richard doesn't blink an eye and doesn't protest, begins to button Thomas back into his shirt — 

"I can do it," he grumbles, pushing his hands away, except then he promptly discovers that he can't, because his hands are trembling. What is _wrong_ with him. It's not as if someone were banging up their door. It's not as if there were whistles blowing. Just a loud thump and a man and a woman daring to speak without lowering their voices, laugh without stifling the sound… but that's all it takes to make him forget himself, isn't it? Always has been. Just needs a reminder of what other people have got that he never will for anger to fill out his lungs.

Maybe they're adulterers. That would put them on more of an even pitch, wouldn't it, because nobody wants that to get out. 

Except that you can't go to prison for having an affair.

"You're woolgathering."

"I don't _do_ that," Thomas snaps. " _You_ do that."

He takes a breath.

Richard looks hurt; when he swallows it's conspicuous in his throat.

"Sorry," Thomas breathes.

"No, I understand how you're angry."

"Maybe, except I'm nothing _but_ angry, Richard – "

"Hey," and Thomas lets him take his wrists, lets him hold them like they're delicate… but when he speaks he's emphatic. "We've got every right to be." A breath. "Let me – let me get you dressed again, all right?"

Thomas nods.

He does, and _let_ is a good word for it, just stands there with his head bowed feeling sorry for himself, sorry for _them,_ and before long his collar is buttoned, his braces are once more over his shoulders, and Richard is clasping his hands behind his neck and stepping back. 

They end up on the bed, where the quilt and duvet are folded back in layers and they've propped up the pillows against the headboard. Thomas lies on his back, lets his legs hang off the side and brings his hands up to his face.

"It's not fucking fair."

"No, Thomas, it isn't."

"Don't _patronise_ me – "

Richard's hand is at the side of his chest, fingers splayed over his ribs. He has three layers of clothes on but somehow he still fits them into the right places, and it makes Thomas pause. "Was agreeing with you."

He keeps his wrists up over his eyes, though. "It's not fair," he says again. "It isn't right, that everybody else can – can go wherever they like and do as they please and not risk anything when they do it, and we've got to – "

"Search high and low for some place isn't even safe."

Thomas huffs.

"When you talk to me like that you're carrying coals to Newcastle," Richard adds, idly. 

Resigned, Thomas rolls over toward him, brings his hands back to his sides. Richard keeps his hand right where it is, and they face one another like that, focused.

"Nowhere's ever gonna be safe," Thomas breathes.

"We don't know that," Richard counters. "Don't know about _ever._ " 

They are close; they are close enough that Thomas can see the chafing at the inside of his lips from winter and the lines at the corners of his eyes, small and faint ones that were not there when they met but that he suspects are now there to stay.

They don't kiss.

Thomas says, "don't know about _nowhere_ , either, then, do we."

It's meant to be harsh, challenging, but Richard doesn't take it that way.

"Can rattle off a list of places already…"

"Ones we can just go to whenever we like, is that it?"

Richard's hand is still at his ribs. Though he's hesitated, seeing the look on his face now makes Thomas match the gesture: he sets his hand in the same place, then draws it lower along his body, reaches to hook his fingers under the belt of his waistcoat, press against the curve in his back.

Somehow, lying like this is the most comfortable he's been all day, even with his knees bent awkwardly and his weight imbalanced. 

"Even if we could do," he says, when Richard only looks at him in response, brows raised, "can't be _that_ long of a list, can it. Not many places."

"Only need one."

What they _need_ is to not have to bloody go anywhere… 

But he gives in.

"Where would you go?"

The corners of Richard's mouth quirk. "Florence."

Barely took him half a second.

"Florence," Thomas repeats. 

"Italy."

"I know where fucking Florence is."

And he's really smiling now, not just the coy half-smirk he's prone to. Thomas doesn't know if it's because he finds his indignance amusing or what, but he can't be self-conscious when he sees it. It's like the sun's shining directly into his face — shining into his face, but not blinding him. And that's not a feeling you actually get outside, not a feeling to be had anywhere else but with people… a few select, special, people. He's not met many, the kind of man you look at and they brighten everything up but you don't feel like you have to squint. Richard gives it to him every time they're together, and though that's not been so many times (although God does it feel like it has been, sometimes it feels like they've been together for years) (but sometimes it feels like it's only been a day, too) he's nevertheless come to enjoy it when it happens, to expect it. Subconsciously, but he does. 

Even in the pouring rain… he'd given him the widest smile yesterday at the station. Made his heart flip over.

"Liked it there," Richard adds, and Thomas huffs.

"When did you _go?_ "

"Few years back," he says, casually. "Not long after the war ended. They've got fashion houses and suchlike. Was on Royal business, of course."

"Thought Paris was the place for fashion houses."

"Had more to do with leather than haut-couture."

"Is that even your job? Haven't they got buyers or something?"

"Get lucky sometimes, tagging along on things."

But he's beginning to sound guarded, and Thomas knows he's not going to say much more about it. Never does, where work's concerned. By now he knows better than to expect that of him, though sometimes he wishes he'd talk more openly about it. What he writes in his letters is the day-to-day stuff, what he did, how he's feeling, if he ran an errand or something, nothing in much detail. But from this summer and from what he's had since, and now from yesterday, too, Thomas gets the impression that there's more to his reluctance to talk about it than just… he doesn't know. He does understand it, he's not exactly sending Richard a list of his duties every day, and it's nice to sit down in the evening with a pen and paper and think about other things, share in that, but…

Richard is sort of depressed, and it scares him.

"Can't've been that nice, if it was right after the war."

Because that's going to help him be _less_ depressed, is talking about the war.

"Saw its potential."

"Italy doesn't seem like a great place to live at the moment, going by the papers."

So's that.

"I suppose you've got a brighter idea, then, Mr Barrow," says Richard, and even though they're lying down on their sides he still manages to do that little condescending head jerk thing he does. 

It doesn't infuriate him like it could, but it is rather annoying.

"Tangier's meant to be nice," he says slowly. "Sunny."

"Nice if you've got a title behind your name. Not for our sort."

Thomas doesn't entirely know what to say to that; he makes a vague noise, shifts.

"Reckon most blokes there are paying for it," Richard adds.

"Okay," Thomas says. He is more than _rather_ annoyed at this point, and he pulls away from him to sit upright, bends his legs up to his chest and rests his chin on his knee. "We've got, what, two, three other options in the world, then? What's next?"

Richard rolls onto his back. He's back to his half-smile.

"Constantinople."

"Paris."

"You hate France."

"Doesn't mean I prefer Turkey."

Raised eyebrows. What else is new.

"Got into trouble over preferring it at one point, didn't you?"

Thomas grabs a pillow and smacks him with it; Richard is quick enough on his toes that he blocks his face with his forearms. 

When he tries to hit back, Thomas is ready with an elbow. "Keep it," he says, flippant, meaning the pillow. "Sure you'll need it to keep your mouth shut again shortly – "

"Warsaw."

"Warsaw?"

"Yeah," and Richard's sitting up now, legs outstretched; he sets the pillow in his lap and nudges Thomas's foot with his own, slipping his under the arch and wiggling his toes through his stockings. "Warsaw. Poland."

"I know where – " 

But Richard shakes his head, grins.

Turns out to be contagious. Thomas bumps his foot against his ankle in return and looks away from him like a bashful schoolgirl.

Unintentionally. But he's sure that's what it looks like.

"I didn't know that about Poland," he says thoughtfully.

"Gather it's a bit tricky," and Richard gives him another nudge. "Laws are on the books, but they've not been in use since the war ended — better than here, though, isn't it?"

"If it's true."

"I trust my sources, Mr Barrow."

_And what sources are those…_

Thomas nods, though, and he doesn't ask.

"Know if it's any good?"

"Heard it's wonderful, actually," Richard says, soft and thoughtful but still _telling_ him, although Thomas finds he doesn't actually mind it. "Heard it's the most beautiful city on the continent."

He sounds like he could believe it, too.

"Probably've seen photos at one point," Thomas says. There was much to do with it in the papers at one point, he recalls, but that was so long ago he's got no idea what it was actually for. Never been much of a world citizen. "But I don't think I can picture it."

Richard hums. "Don't suppose we've got to be especially true to life at the moment."

"Good, 'cause I don't fancy learning Polish."

"A true Englishman," says Richard, and Thomas pokes him, gets a smile for his troubles. "But yeah, been told good things. Suppose the main criticism's it could be more modern, but…"

"More modern than this place," he counters, "if what two blokes get up to in private's not a problem."

Richard raises his eyebrows, flexes and points his foot under his, which is an odd feeling that gives him a shiver down his spine. This is very suddenly no longer a serious conversation. (Not that it was serious, not that it was anything more than silly daydreaming… they can talk about eloping all they like, but it won't ever happen.)

"And what is it that two blokes get up to in private, Mr Barrow."

Well, they had to make their way back here eventually... Thomas opens his mouth but can't say anything. That feeling like there's a hook deep in his belly urging him forward comes back to him immediately, though. He can't speak, but he nods, _go on, I'm ready again._ Ready as long as he does a good job seducing him, but there's no question that he will. Most of the time Thomas thinks he could be coaxed into anything if Richard asks him sweetly enough… and he always does.

The pillow is set aside.

"Say we find ourselves in Warsaw," Richard continues, "or Tangier," with a tilt of his head and an amused smile, teasing, "for your sunshine – "

How generous, going against his principles for the sake of talking him out of his trousers again. 

"We don't get much of it in Yorkshire," Thomas counters, his voice back to him again, "I've got a right to want it if I've got a choice," and Richard laughs and his chest gets all fluttery; he manages a tentative smile.

_Don't think about why this is the fantasy..._

"Would we see very much of it there, I wonder."

"Well, we could have the window open," he says. He's still cautious, but he can play along. _It'll go away,_ he reassures himself, and when Richard moves nearer and sets his hand under his ankle, brings it up between his calf and his thigh, it finally begins to. "If there wasn't risk of anything."

Richard crinkles the fabric of his trousers between his fingers.

"Bet you're beautiful in the sunlight."

"Do you."

"Wish we'd had some before."

But they have, haven't they?

"Was sunny in Downton."

"Never had you out of your clothes in Downton," with a broad grin, and Thomas bites his lip and knows he must be blushing. "Never had you quite like I wanted you."

"How do you want me in _Tangier,_ " he says, trying to sound witty and failing. 

"How'd I just say?"

He moves still closer on the bed — then flips his hand, moves it lower again, down his thigh, _between_ his thighs, and Thomas makes a small gasping noise. One that surprises him.

He still has his fucking trousers on; this had better speed up soon.

"In the sun?"

"Mhm."

"Out of my clothes," hinting, like he can't do the work himself, but he'd like to get that out of this again and he has no shame in admitting it. It was fun.

"Up against the wall."

Thomas stills. 

"You know we've got four of them in here," Richard continues, all coaxing now, "and one of 'em hasn't got anybody on the other side of it – "

Smart man.

They're out of bed and across the room in no time at all, beside the window, and they find themselves how they did earlier: Thomas with his back to the wall, shirt falling off of his shoulders and braces — impatiently and improperly removed this time — slung around his hips, legs bent and spread enough that Richard has room to press their hips together as he kisses him senseless. They part just enough that he's able to unfasten the rest of his shirt, and Thomas yields as he untucks it from his trousers and pulls it off of him. They rest their heads each against the other and breathe heavily, not at the same time but still in rhythm, alternating, still together somehow. It's Thomas who starts the kiss this time, and soon enough he's gasping; he lets his hands fall from Richard's back and raises his arms. Richard is quick to catch on, grabbing the hem of his vest and lifting it up over his head. 

He tilts his head back against the wall as Richard continues, undoing the buttons of his suit and tugging the straps down off of his shoulders so that his chest is bare — Thomas isn't entirely sure where they're going with this, seeing as Richard himself still has his tie done and his bloody waistcoat on, and he won't _complain_ exactly but...

The moment he starts to say something about that Richard starts pushing his thigh between his legs again.

"God, Richard, I'm not just going to – "

But Richard kisses him and presses more firmly and he starts to realise he probably _could._ Could probably just fucking rub off on him like this, and if he keeps bloody doing this then he just may fucking _do_ that – 

"So," Richard says as he pulls back, laughing at him with no sense of decency about it whatsoever, and Thomas is trying very hard to calm down and breathe slowly but it's not going so well, "you and I are in Tangier, probably looking over a beach somewhere – "

"Would you shut up about bloody Tangier – "

This time Richard quiets him by bringing his fingers up to his mouth, by pressing at his lips and very, very gently tugging.

It works well. Too well. 

Thomas stares at him, aware that he is wide-eyed and off his guard.

"Remember earlier?" Richard asks casually.

Somehow he manages to nod. He could say, _yes it was very romantic when I bit you,_ but he doesn't, because he is too busy trying not to thrust against Richard's goddamn leg, and because Richard is looking into his eyes (and haven't they got a smile in them) and now slipping two of his fingers into his mouth, which is more arousing than it has any right to be.

He lets his jaw relax.

Both his hands are free, though, and he finally finds something to do with them in grasping at Richard's hips, pulling him nearer. Maybe this _is_ all they'll do, is hold one another and rub up against each other right here with Richard fingering his fucking mouth and God, he'd not mind that although he's not about to fathom why — but then Richard brings his other hand to his head and strokes his hair, and he swallows around him and touches his tongue to his knuckles, and it's a joke at this point, such a fucking joke, but he knows very well what he actually wants. The second Richard pulls his hand away, his lips open and his cheeks flushed, Thomas is dropping to his knees, dragging his hands down from his shoulders to his waist.

"Thomas," Richard says, laughing, "Thomas, this is a bit backwards – "

"Trade me places then," he retorts.

"Are you sure you want to do this again?"

"What does it _look like_ ," but a glance upward tells him Richard is pleased by the development.

So does a glance forward.

They trade places.

He accepts the fact that Richard is going to remain clothed while they do this — just means he needs to swallow well, he supposes. The thought of that isn't much help in abating his erection, and it is with eager hands that he unfastens Richard's trousers and then slips his hand through the placket of his underwear.

Thankfully (wouldn't that be embarrassing, how hot and bothered he is himself…) he's not starting from scratch here, and before long Thomas has his lips just around the head of his prick, the tip of his tongue quick against the slit, and with his hand he holds his bollocks in his palm and touches his thumb to the base of him, touching him as much and as little as he can at once. He puts his left hand at his hip, and then when Richard adjusts to allow it, behind, palm at the curve of his arse. He hasn't yet decided if he's going to take his time or not, so he finds a medium — sucking fervently but not taking him far into his mouth at all, leaving him wanting in the middle, and up above him Richard makes a strangled sound. Though he's wearing trousers Thomas is nonetheless able to make _suggestions_ with his hand, and with his gloved knuckles against the wall he drags his fingertips from the base of his spine down.

He realises he's been pressing his hips into thin air at the same time Richard does. 

"Steady there," he teases, and Thomas has half a mind to stop and whinge at him, but he doesn't. He does, however, force himself to close his legs, although that almost makes it worse — God, he was already hard before he fell to his knees and this _isn't helping;_ who _wouldn't_ have an oral problem if they knew what sucking cock was like, that's his question —

Richard caresses the top of his head with a gentle hand and sighs; Thomas, encouraged, finally takes him deeper into his mouth.

"Oh, Thomas," Richard breathes, and tension swirls in him again.

Thomas pulls back just enough to take some steadying breaths through his nose; there is a soft thump as Richard rests his head upon the wall behind him... And then he simply sucks, lips halfway along, tongue pressed to the underside. He takes it all in, Richard's soft, sweet noises, the gentle roll of his hips. The way he strokes his hair, petting him like he were a cat instead of pulling, and he thought it this morning and he thought it yesterday and he thought it back in London, even, but he likes it more than anything else. Likes it most. When he mellowed out is anyone's guess.

And then Richard starts to fucking _talk_ —

"That's it, Thomas, 's just how I like," and it isn't as natural as it could be and Thomas realises it's because he's trying to do that _thing,_ he's actually _trying;_ Richard tousles his hair, presses his palm down along the back of his head, holding him gently in place. "Keep at it, love."

Thomas moans around his prick, can't fucking help it. He continues eagerly; Richard's breaths begin to come quick and shallow, but then there is a pause, and he's composed again once more.

Well, that won't do.

"You're," he starts again, "you're excellent, Thomas – _mother of God_ – "

He's so, so fucking glad that the first thing he did to him was this, because it always a couple of tries to get it right (and it _did,_ yesterday, which was embarrassing) but now it's easy to take him all the way back, to ease his jaw and have him deep in his throat and to have his lips and his nose against him. 

He pulls back to breathe (and when he breathes it's like he's breathing him) before beginning again, now bobbing his head.

"There you are," Richard murmurs. "Just like that."

His own cock is straining; he reaches down to press the heel of his hand against himself (his thighs twitch and a noise comes up from the back of his throat and he _wants_ ) before returning his attention once more to the one in his mouth. Thomas moves his head back and forth in more of a pattern, develops a rhythm, gives him attention with his tongue all over. With his thumb and pointer finger he lightly pinches at the base of his prick, turns his arm such that his other fingers settle in his hair.

He tries to keep his hand still between his own legs, resorts to pinching the fabric between his fingers as he holds himself through his trousers.

"God, Thomas, are you touching yourself?"

His mouth is full (he wishes it weren't the only thing that was) so he can't exactly answer that question, but he tries to make a sound that gets across a meaning of _yes and don't you dare tell me to stop._

"Yes, you are, Thomas, doing well, love, that's it, be good for me, you're so good for me – "

Apparently he's completely forgotten the instruction not to talk to him like an animal but it doesn't even matter because Richard was right, he was right all along, this is so fucking affecting, because _this is what he wants_ , this is what he's wanted, is to be good for him and with him and to him; he can't even be fucking embarrassed – 

"My love," says Richard softly, and then a little less soft: "good, Thomas, good, wonderful – "

Thomas's knees are beginning to get sore, but he doesn't fucking care, he doesn't want this to ever fucking end; God, he may be fucked up, this may be fucked up, but it's what he wants; it's all he ever fucking wants. He likes the way Richard's knees begin to buckle as he pulls back to tongue deliberately at the head, likes the sound of the beginnings of a whine, swiftly stifled, when he closes lips there, leaving the remainder of his length untouched just how he started, likes how his hips move when Thomas finally gets a modicum of self-control back and reaches up again to grip his backside.

Richard's thumb is at his forehead now; he gently brushes up, toward his hairline, a silent bid to lift his head, and then he follows it with a less silent one. He is surprisingly coherent.

"God, Thomas, you're perfect; look up at me, love, can you do that? 

He does his best, he's already pulled off of him just enough that he can, and Richard meets his eyes and smiles and he's clearly at his own wits' end but he's still trying to do this, _bloody hell,_ "there you are, that's it, keep – keep going – "

And Thomas takes him back all the way into his throat again; Richard is saying, in a strangled, desperate voice that he hopes is indicative of _soon,_ "very good, Thomas, 's good, yeah, yeah," and he manages to swallow around him one more time before he has to stop, a pause wherein he takes hold of Richard's hips with both hands to brace himself, neglecting his own want, but then he has to pull away entirely so he can even bloody breathe because he's gasping —

("Thomas," Richard says)

— because it hasn't been much time, it probably hasn't even been two fucking minutes, and he just _stopped_ touching himself so this isn't fucking logical in the slightest but he's coming into his underwear all over himself, circling his hips into thin air again and whining high in his throat (God, this is everything) and then Richard is coming, too, on his jaw and neck and chest, warm upon his skin, and he feels like he's going to fucking faint —

Before he knows it Richard is hoisting him up by his underarms, holding him around the hips — "fuck, Thomas, Jesus fucking Christ," and this particular mix of words in his particular voice only serves to further disorient him — and then suddenly they're in the washroom. He's seated on the stool; there's water going from either the sink or the tub, and he's breathing quick and shallow. Panting. By the time he feels a wet cloth pressed to his face, he doesn't know how long it's been.

Thomas opens his eyes. 

He hadn't known he'd closed them.

Richard is wiping him down at his neck and chest and looking at him with an expression stolid but for his eyes, wider than normal, and betrayed by his breathing, which is fast.

Thomas leans his head against the wall, closes his eyes again, lets himself be taken care of.

At some point Richard says, unbearably conversational, "when you said this summer – what was it, exactly – when you said you could be satisfied just by _having a prick in your mouth_ ," and he presses a re-dampened cloth to his collar and starts to scrub at his chest in gentle circles, "I thought you were exaggerating."

Thomas shakes his head.

"Yeah, I see that now."

"Sorry."

His voice is hoarse.

"Thomas, that was the most arousing thing I've ever seen in my life."

He nods.

"You okay there?"

Again.

"Should probably get you out of those."

God, what the hell has he done. How embarrassing. He opens his eyes, blinks, comes to slightly, looks down. "Did... you take my trousers off?"

His voice sounds more bewildered than he feels, but not by much.

"Didn't want you to trip over yourself," says Richard lightly. "Suppose I might've carried you like a bride, but it ended up more like dragging – "

Thomas snorts. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his wrist, like he's getting sleep out of them, before deciding he can't be bothered and leaning back again, eyes shut.

"Can't believe you came on my face."

"Sorry."

"You don't sound it."

"Yeah, I'm not especially – 'less you minded."

He shakes his head.

"Warning'd be nice," he says slowly. "But this one was my fault, I think."

"Have to agree with you there – right," and then Richard's got his elbows under his arms again, tugging. "Up you get."

In no time at all he's seated again, legs spread, and Richard is — much more carefully — using the wet cloth on his inner thighs and groin, gentle. "I'll let you finish."

Thomas holds his hand out and accepts the washcloth.

He manages remarkably well with his eyes closed, but then, he's not normally _looking_ when he's got his hands down there… The problem now is he's sensitive.

When he does open his eyes, Richard is sitting on the side of the tub grinning at him like an absolute fool, and he must know it, because he schools his face when he realises Thomas is looking.

Schools it into an only slightly less stupid looking smile, and despite all that's just happened Thomas feels fluttery knowing he can look at him like that.

They sit there for a little while longer, until Thomas looks at his underwear bunched up on the floor and says, "I really don't want to deal with this."

"If only you'd thought of that beforehand."

"Feel like I'm fifteen."

Richard laughs, shakes his head. "Have others?"

"Winter ones."

He'd worn these today because it was more convenient to get them off — that was why they were in his damn suitcase to begin with — but look how that turned out. 

"I like you no matter what you're wearing," Richard teases, and Thomas finds it in himself to laugh… "Are we going to dress?"

Nice that they have the choice.

Thomas shrugs. "Probably ought to." He pauses. "You… don't have much farther to go, you realise."

He'd taken his waistcoat off at some point, but otherwise was dressed: shirt back in his trousers, tie straight and collar pinned, braces fastened and proper on his shoulders.

He could look at him for hours.

"I'll go gather yours," Richard says after a moment. "May as well lay about in shirtsleeves while we can."

And that turns out to be exactly what they do: soon enough they're snuggling on the bed and talking about sex, because of course they are.

Thomas finds himself struggling to explain himself as to when he can finish without being touched and when he can't. Pointless venture, really, there's probably no rhyme or reason to it, "and besides, I'd _been_ touching myself," he says. He doesn't have the energy to be especially pointed.

Meek and mild.

"I'd noticed," Richard returns. He's back to his smirks and half-smiles.

"Doesn't count, then."

"Well, I beg to differ," he says cheerfully. "Liked seeing it happen."

This man… 

Thomas hooks his fingers under a strap of his braces and draws them up and down, tugging just a little. Richard gives him an amused smile.

"Do normal people talk after every time," Thomas begins, "or is it just us?"

"Normal people?"

"Er, people in general." He pauses. "No, I meant blokes, actually."

Something in Richard's face changes, and it doesn't take Thomas long to determine why.

"Stupid question," he pronounces bitterly, "never have the bloody time, do we."

"You and I do," says Richard. He doesn't look happy anymore — almost seems affronted, but Thomas doesn't think it's at him. "Er, it is special to us, of the men I've been with, now I think of it."

This is already getting too serious for his liking, so Thomas says, "yeah, me too," and he tugs at the strap again and rolls over toward him, gives him a kiss on the nose. 

Just like that, he's smiling again. 

"Anyway," Thomas goes on. He checks Richard's face for anything indicating they can't pick up where they left off, doesn't find it. "It's been, er… dunno, I think I always have. Harder by myself," because his fucking hand gets tired, but he's not about to admit that, "and… well, I didn't find out by myself, really. First time anyone put his hands down there — and I don't just mean to — " Richard nods, amused, and he huffs before going on, "er, yeah, that's what happened. Thought I might have grown out of it until..."

"What, until me?"

Glint in his eye and everything.

Thomas is loathe to disappoint him.

Except he shouldn't be. 

"We haven't really done that yet," he tells him, and this time he _is_ pointed. "This summer you only…"

"...and I was touching you, wasn't I," muses Richard, completely casual, as though he is talking about anything other than the occasion where he had his fingers halfway in him at the same time as he was rubbing him off, a subject regarding which Thomas does not think he himself could be casual. "When was it, then?"

"When I went to New York." He pauses. "Found out about the whole sucking off thing then, too."

"What a lucky man he must have been."

Thomas coughs. "Er, there were several."

"Is that right, Mr Barrow," Richard says, eyebrows raised. 

"Is that so hard to believe?" he retorts, sharp out of nowhere (no, he knows where it came from), but Richard is unphased… or is acting like he is. Thomas is trying to learn the difference.

"No."

He's definitely amused now; Thomas can tell.

There's no good way of telling when he'll find Thomas's antics entertaining and when he'll be frustrated with him, and finding a middle ground there is even more difficult, but it's clear to see he's entertained at the moment.

When Thomas doesn't say anything, Richard grins, asks, "several at once?"

" _No,_ " but Richard laughs; he sits up and grabs him by the forearms, holds him in place on his back as he kisses him.

Thomas allows it, opening his mouth against his, letting him take. It's short and sweet, but Richard bites at his bottom lip before parting, making him shiver.

"Didn't mind the thought," he says. The grip of his hands is strong and he is smiling diabolically and it is _difficult to cope with._

Although he's just been satisfied and will remain that way for probably the next six fucking hours, Thomas could probably melt into the mattress right now and have no qualms about it. With effort he manages to say, "only want you, Mr Ellis," and it sounds romantic enough that he should have no complaints.

"Aren't you in luck," says Richard. "You do have me." 

He kisses him again, more gently this go around.

When it's over, Thomas just looks up at him and probably blushes. He doesn't know if he can actually tell when he's doing it or if he simply feels as though he ought to be blushing in Richard's presence, given all the words that come out of his mouth and the things that he does, and if he's honest with himself, it probably doesn't matter which.

It's the thought that counts.

"How long does it usually take?"

"What, the – to – ?"

"To climax, Thomas."

"You've seen it happen," Thomas says flippantly, "you're a grown man; you can do maths."

"Only I'm thinking you're a bit of a hypocrite, Mr Barrow."

"Fuck off," and Richard bursts into laughter.

"You never stop, do you," says Thomas when he's finished. He's smiling, and the warmth and affection he's feeling fills up his voice without his even having to make it happen. 

He never knew until Richard how easy it could be to let those things out of him, how simple it was for them to soak into everything he does, how they can come from him effortlessly, no need to try. The only times he's ever come close to being able to be so free with himself and his feelings has been with the children, but that's different for so many reasons and in so many ways — and, too, he knows he can't treat them like, say, Mrs Hughes or Mr Carson can. Can't get too close. Not when people know. And the adults around him, his staff (and they all make up a sort of thrown-together family at this point) and the people upstairs, they've known him for too long and and seen him in the wrong ways and that colours everything he does for them, and he knows it. And he hates it. Yes, it's his own fault; yes, he's got to live with it, but he hates it. 

Because he has so much he wants to give, and if he can't give it to the people around him or bring it out all the time when he feels it, he'll flood Richard with it and it'll happen by accident, it'll spill over, and – 

"Can't help it if I'm happy around you," Richard replies, smug. Thomas wrestles himself out of his grasp, pretends it's more of a struggle than it is.

"Good," he says. "You should be."

"Then that's settled."

For a long, tranquil moment they sit there foolishly smiling at each other… until it isn't tranquil anymore because they're laughing, and laughing, and laughing.

He has never felt like this with anybody else in his life.

As it subsides, Thomas moves to sit at the headboard of the bed and pulls Richard toward him; they sit angled toward one another, legs crossed. When Richard begins to fidget with the end of his tie Thomas takes his hand and interlaces their fingers.

Then he starts kissing his knuckles because he can't help himself, and Richard seems to have no complaints. He's watching it happen, even, as though his hand's not part of his body.

"What about you?" Thomas asks eventually. "As far as that goes."

Richard blinks.

"Come again?"

"Said what about you." 

He's absolutely not paying attention… Thomas finds himself smiling again. He's not sure if he even stopped.

But he squeezes his hand, pauses his affections. "Can you come without anybody touching your – "

"Oh," says Richard, like he's just woken up. Thomas raises his eyebrows. "No. Haven't ever."

"Hm."

"Not for lack of trying, mind," he continues. "Men have done."

Thomas returns to pressing kisses to the back of his hand. "Better men than me?" he asks coyly.

"No," Richard replies. "But…"

"But?"

"I've got preferences like any other man, things I don't mind and all, but it gets to be torture, if someone's paying special attention and I can't…"

He can count on one hand the amount of times Richard's ever been awkward like this in front of him.

All the joy from minutes before has faded.

"I don't like it," Richard finishes. 

"You won't let _me_ try, then." It sounds petulant and childish when he says it like that. He wants to kick himself.

Richard shakes his head.

"Well," says Thomas, "if you change your mind…"

"I won't."

He says it so sharply that Thomas just about flinches. He drops his hand, pulls away. "Well." And he _knows_ he must have reasons, of course he's got reasons, and even if he doesn't that's not any of his business if he's uninterested, but something about the way he says it prods him where he's sore.

"It's nothing to do with you, Thomas," murmurs Richard, and he's trying, Thomas can tell he's trying and he knows he's telling the truth, "I just…"

"I get it," he says shortly.

He does. His head does, at least.

"I want you," Richard says, still in that soft, pleading voice, "I want you so many ways, just not that one."

Looking back up at him, seeing the crease in his brow, Thomas realises what his actual problem is — and it's so _pathetic,_ but then he's asking the question before he thinks he's even made up his mind: "you don't think less of me, do you, that I – "

And Richard looks as relieved as he feels, that they do indeed trust as much as they thought they did.

"I've told you I like it, Thomas," and he slips his hand into Thomas's again. "Not anything either of us have control over, besides."

This, and so many other things.

Thomas brings his hand back to his lips and kisses it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **geographical commentary:**
> 
> \- in 1929 homosexuality was on-the-books legal and/or decriminalized in italy, france, turkey, and tangier. in poland this became the case in 1932; in the 1920s, the laws concerning same sex sexual activity from previous polish occupying powers were not typically enforced by the new polish government. other nations on the list: the netherlands, belgium, luxembourg, monaco (stemming from 1st republic french revolutionary law in the 1790s). there you have it; this is a complete list of nations/jurisdictions in/associated with europe (i promise i know where morocco is) wherein it was legally safe to live life as a homosexual man in 1929. denmark would follow poland in 1933. richard went with warsaw probably because he expected thomas wouldn't think of it as an option. and he was right!
> 
> \- florence was indeed the centre of both textiles/fashion and leather in italy at this time, but italy's exports were much smaller and it was not known internationally for these things at anywhere near the level it is today (that began in the 1950s/60s). i have no clue if the royal family would have had anything to do with italian exports and my suspicion is probably not. thomas is referring to how the 1920s in italy were the beginning of the fascist totalitarianism that would see it through the middle of the century.
> 
> \- i didn't make a mistake up there. homosexuality was illegal in morocco, but in the 1920s tangier was an international zone principally administrated by france, spain & the uk and a haven for male homosexual westerners. there was a very large problem with prostitution of local underage males.
> 
> \- thomas here is not fond of france nor turkey for different but hopefully obvious reasons. richard refers to it as "constantinople" because although the name of the city had been officially changed earlier in the decade in 1923, administration in turkey had not yet gotten zealous about it being called istanbul internationally. frankly i'm not sure how most english people referred to it at this time but seeing as most of the world was still calling it constantinople until the 1930s, i guessed.
> 
> \- warsaw was known to be gorgeous prior to its destruction from third reich bombing in the 2nd world war. the polish-soviet war ended in 1920 and was regarded as A Big Thing (which it was of course! but for different reasons in britain than in poland, naturally, politically speaking. thomas IS world citizen in fact but it's been almost ten years since this happened and he had a lot going on that year).
> 
> i have no idea if a man in richard's position would have actually participated in international royal household business but i'm taking artistic liberties.


	7. not a love poem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is almost 11k words.
> 
>  **content notes:** sexual content (surprise! bet you weren't expecting to see that!), homophobia, dismissive thoughts about women in the context of internalised homophobia, referenced minor original character death, implied/referenced child abuse, smoking.

"I'm only stepping out for air," Richard tells him.

Thomas frowns.

"It's raining."

"Won't be long."

"You'll catch cold."

"Nurse me back to health if I do," grinning and devilish, and then he's put his hat on his head and he's out the door.

Naturally, Thomas immediately goes over to the window to watch and wait, hoping he'll see him as he comes down.

A few minutes pass.

No such luck.

Then he sits there for a few _more_ minutes — now that he thinks of it he hasn't got the best view if he's only loitering outside the door — before grabbing Richard's book off the desk, discarded that morning.

And then he sits down and puts his feet up, just like then.

The rain's still drizzling steadily against the window. Weather like this in January's not irregular, per se, but something about it's eerie in a way Thomas can't put his finger on. Time passes differently, maybe. 

But then, they've hardly been around for twenty-four hours yet.

In a great house you get used to everything running in a certain way whether you can look out the window or not: it may not be quite so complex as it used to be, not so many pieces, but there's a rhythm to Downton Abbey, a steady pattern day in and day out. As it happens he's the one with the conductor's baton nowadays, but he's still got the past to rely on. His days are long throughout the year, shaped by traditions that are slowly and steadily dying and outlined by the ringing of bells. 

It's monotonous and it leaves him wanting, but each new day's got a beginning, an end and a middle.

There's no sense of that here.

Maybe it's only that he never really gets to see winter.

Thomas opens up the book in his lap.

In _White Buildings_ Richard has left traces of himself by way of folded over page corners and pencil marks, but there are no notes in the margins, no words boxed up or underlined, just ticks in the leading, sometimes smudged. Lines he left off at, probably. So far as Thomas can tell the only thing he's properly written in it is _R. Ellis_ on the front inside cover.

He's disappointed but not surprised.

Richard's cautious; he's not the sort of man who leaves bits and pieces of himself on everything he touches by accident, not in the way Thomas is. 

The few books Thomas has that he calls his own have been marked up to the point that nobody else could read them without being confronted with his opinions on every paragraph… his sentimental, often incriminating opinions. And he'll always maintain that writing in them isn't improper, they're _his_ books, and maybe that's why he does it is he's only got so many things where he's able and allowed to leave traces of himself, and where he's got control over how he does at that, but there's a reason they live in his wardrobe and not on a shelf out in the open. Lots of what he puts down is worth hiding.

Even without commentary, though, it shortly becomes clear that Richard's read the whole thing already. At least once. Probably more times.

Toward the back, pressed between the pages, maybe to mark the place he's in this go around, is an envelope. It's torn in the middle, across where the flap goes — does the man not use a bloody letter opener? — but the whole thing's been flattened out, creases smoothed. It's return address side up.

_T. Barrow_

_Downton Abbey_

_Downton, North Riding, Yorkshire_

Of course.

Nothing in it, but he sort of wants to know what was. No words jump out at him from the pages on either side, so he supposes it isn't especially significant that he's chosen that for his place marker. It's probably just the last thing Thomas had sent him at the time. Part of him's disappointed about that, too, but that's what comes of snooping.

Thomas flips back to the beginning and starts reading.

He's shortly reminded of why the last poetry he read ( _really_ read) was bloody Shakespeare, and why that was _years_ ago. 

But if Richard likes it…

He does his best.

It's not light reading.

The problem he has with poetry is he doesn't know how to read it. It's not the verse, though sometimes it takes effort he's always done fine with the English classics when he gives them an honest go, it's that he doesn't know who's talking and he doesn't know how he's meant to be listening, either. That's not a problem in a play, when there're characters involved and you've got a sense of real people feeling and doing things even if they're talking in metre and rhyme. Better to see it than to read it, of course, but it makes _sense._ There's a story. It's not that he needs to be told what to think, he's got his own brain, it's that…

Well, he doesn't know exactly.

Unfortunately, the problem does not go away just because Richard is involved.

Luckily it doesn't get worse, either, but Thomas finds himself getting stuck more often than he normally does, and after reading the same verse five times over he snaps the book shut and leans his head back in his chair to stare at the ceiling.

It's at this moment he remembers that he and Richard have differing definitions of phrases like _won't be long_.

In this case, though…

What could he possibly be doing? No way he ran into anybody he knows around here, they both went to lengths to make sure that couldn't happen, and he made it sound like he was just going to step out, take some deep breaths and then come back in.

_Unless he ran into somebody he didn't know, somebody whom he didn't know but who suspected anyway, somebody who –_

Another glance out the window tells him nothing. There's nobody out there. Not Richard and not anybody he could have come across. He's fine and Thomas is being a fucking mother hen about it, fretting after a grown man who can take care of himself and hasn't even been gone for five minutes.

Except it's definitely been longer than five minutes at this point.

Thomas turns the latch and pushes the window open enough for some fresh air of his own. Mist gets in his face; he closes it.

Being alone in the room disquiets him.

He could get up and find something to do, but he doesn't. Better to just sit here and wallow than pace around, in his opinion. He's not a pacer, although Richard may be. He's noticed an inkling of it in him. Maybe he's pacing around in the rain getting all wet trying to remember what he likes about Thomas Barrow. If he is, serves him right if he catches a cold.

He's probably not doing that.

Probably.

Except if he got sick then Thomas would get sick, and that would put a damper on things. Aren't they lucky you can't actually get ill from being wet. Not _this_ kind of wet, at least. In this kind of wet you'd have to be out for hours and get your clothes soaked to your skin and then get unlucky on top of it, and that's a different sort of ill than having a cold anyway.

Not even Richard Ellis can loiter for that long.

Thomas checks his watch, which proves futile. He didn't check it when he left. And really, if it's only been five minutes or so that isn't _so_ long. Not when you think about it. But it must have been longer than that, and even if it hasn't been, standing around in a drizzle for ten minutes doesn't sound like Thomas's idea of a good time.

He supposes he could break out the diary again. Write down his _feelings._ It would be a very different entry to the one from that morning, at least. 

In the morning Richard hadn't abandoned him to his own devices to sit and wait for him like a fucking puppy dog. Or a housewife. Not that he has anything against puppy dogs or housewives, but he is neither of those things and he doesn't fancy acting otherwise.

For that matter he has to wonder what he meant by the nurse comment. He must have meant _something_. Thomas would have, if he'd said something like that to somebody. 

Nursing is not a man's job. That's what he'd have meant.

He used to wish it was; he's not sure of that now. These days he's got a position he's good at and probably isn't at risk of losing.

He would be qualified, though.

Not to be a nurse, they've got actual requirements for that now and have done since the war. It's why he couldn't find a bloody job out of service, was all the medical anything turned out to have _requirements_. Like he wasn't more experienced at treating wounds and taking pulses and running around following orders than a girl right out of grammar school. It was just to keep the working classes out of doing anything bloody useful, and now it's been ten years, he's forgotten half of what he learned and if everything changed tomorrow he'd still not have a chance in hell of getting in anywhere.

But he'd be qualified. 

If Richard got a cold.

Maybe he should start looking into that again. Learn what's new in medicine. Join in on the pipe dream of leaving service.

God, wouldn't that be something. 

No use hoping for something that isn't gonna happen in a thousand years, though. Something big would have to change for Downton not to need a butler.

Or he'd have to fuck up and get dismissed, but then he'd be lucky to find anything that wasn't manual labour. 

He'd rather die.

Out comes his watch from his pocket again.

He watches the second hand, tick, tick, tick. Seconds always feel longer when you've got a clock in front of you to show you they're passing. 

Maybe Richard will be gone long enough he could take this old thing apart and put it back together again. That'd be something. _Look, Mr Ellis, I have talents after all, except you weren't around to see them because you were skipping around in bloody puddles._

But what else could he be doing? Really.

If Thomas wrote a letter to someone at Downton it would probably get there with the morning post. Or maybe the evening, actually, it's later than he'd thought it was, but he'd still be in Corby when it did, which is the point. That'd be one way to take up the time. He won't, of course, the last thing they need is a record that anybody with anything to do with Downton Abbey was down here, but he could.

 _Dear Miss Baxter,_ it would say. _Thank you for asking Mrs Patmore to make me a sandwich for the train. It was very thoughtful of you. I am glad I had it because Mr Ellis and I were much too busy fucking to go down to dinner yesterday._

Imagine.

Luncheon today wasn't torture as much as breakfast was. That was a relief. 

They'll have to go to dinner tonight, though, and he's not looking forward to that. There's bound to be more people from the actual village in then.

Add to that they are spending more money than he cares to on food, but thankfully Richard seemed equally uncomfortable about the fact. (He doesn't know by exactly how much and isn't going to ask, but Thomas knows he gets paid more than he does, so it makes him feel better that they're both at odds with it.) Sometimes Thomas forgets how good they have it having all of that taken care of for them. If they weren't in service they'd have to fend for themselves in the kitchen.

Except if they weren't in service they'd probably both be in loveless sham marriages by now, and then they'd have wives to do it for them. The thought of that makes him sick to his stomach.

God, where the fuck is he?

He looks at the book again.

Clever, the dust jacket thing. That's the sort of trick he'd come up with, isn't it. Richard's bound to have actually read _The Mystery of the Blue Train_ , probably gives the other Royal servants an entire synopsis and a fucking Times Literary style review whenever they ask. A pleasant and engaging lecture that goes on 'til the next bell rings.

Mrs Patmore read that one. And then Daisy did, probably only because she was tired of being badgered over it, and then Andy followed, of course. He does all right with novels these days, but he'll be sorry if she ever picks up something like _The Plumed Serpent._ Awful, in Thomas's opinion. He couldn't finish it. Daisy would probably hate it more than he did, start championing the cause of… well, there were a lot of things in there she'd probably take issue with.

Maybe he should get into Agatha Christie like the rest of them. They could have a bloody book club, except that Anna and Bates have sworn off murder fiction.

Richard reads a lot, he gathers. He talks like he does, all the metaphors and turns of phrase and everything. They never talk much about books; maybe they should. 

Or, they never talk about them _now_ , at least. Funny, because that was one of the first things they talked about during the visit. Virginia Woolf's _To The Lighthouse._ Richard was reading it; Thomas already had.

It had been clear that Richard was impressed by the fact that Thomas read at all, let alone recent things.

Metropolitan git.

Impressed and pleased, though. Maybe he'd taken more offense than he should have at the time and it was just nerves… always is nice when you've got things in common with someone you've started to fancy. Thomas had felt the same way, of course. They're working blokes; there are plenty of men in service who only stayed in school til leaving age, but both of them were in for longer.

And they kept reading after they left, that's probably the main thing. 

Last person Thomas talked about novels with in any way that had substance was fucking His Grace The Duke of Bloody Crowborough. 

He hasn't told Richard about him.

God, they've probably rubbed shoulders — or not _actually,_ he hopes, bloody hell he hopes, but there's no doubt they've been in the same building at the same time at some point over the years. 

He doesn't want to think about that.

Back to his watch, and yes, time is actually passing. He's not making this up.

 _Maybe he's in trouble,_ a voice in his head says. He smothers it, because he isn't. He's not. 

_He's not._

All he's doing is getting away from him for a while. That's the truth and he knows it.

Thomas shoves his watch back into his pocket and glares out the window.

It's going to be dark soon. It's already started. Fucking winter.

He supposes he could try to _read_ the damn book again. Figure out if he's missing something, because as of yet Thomas is not entirely sure what's worth hiding about a book of opaque poetry, but then, Richard's already said he hides things that don't need hiding, hasn't he?

He opens it up to the title page.

_White Buildings:_

_Poems by Hart Crane._

There is the sound of the key turning in the lock; Thomas, in a moment of stupidity, frantically tosses the book back onto the desk. 

It's fine, lands closed and everything, but it's clearly not where Richard left it. 

He wonders if he'll even care.

The door opens, and Richard slips inside.

His hat and coat are dripping; before Thomas has even blinked he's already stripping them off and hanging them up.

"Thought you said you wouldn't be long."

"Lost track of time," says Richard. He shakes his hair out like he's a dog — it can't have gotten that wet, not when he's got both a hat and hair oil as protection from the elements, but he seems to be enjoying himself.

It is somewhat endearing. Or it would be if Thomas didn't feel frustration budding up in him, pushing everything else out.

He opens and closes his fingers, looks out the window again. He knows he's scowling, pursed lips and all; he makes no effort to stop even though he knows he probably should. "You can just say if you want a break from me," he says. 

"I don't."

" _Lost track of time,_ " Thomas repeats, derision sneaking its way into his voice. "When it's bloody pouring – "

"You've a day-dreamer for your lover, Mr Barrow," he replies. _Lover_ echoes in his head; it always does. Man's in a good humour; his smile is audible in his voice. That shouldn't be a thing that anyone's actually capable of, but Richard Ellis manages it somehow. Completely unaffected by his griping, then… It's not fair. Thomas would be fuming if he were talked to like this by someone so important to him as Richard. (As if there _were_ someone else…) He watches him out of the corner of his eye, sees him turn back to the hatstand and slip his hand into his coat pocket, fumble. Then he's crossed the room and tossed something onto the desk.

It lands not far from the book.

A box of cigarettes.

"And Mr Price had things in common with the tobacconist."

"Did he?" asks Thomas. 

They meet eyes.

His irritation, so near to boiling over, begins to subside.

Richard lifts his chin, regarding. "Probably shouldn't be encouraging the habit," he says mildly. "If you're meaning to quit it. But – "

"I don't know if I am," Thomas interrupts. 

"Made it sound as though you were this summer." 

Thomas makes a noise he hopes indicates his lukewarm feelings on the matter.

"Bringing as many with you as we've got days and all."

"Mrs Hughes thought of it," he says slowly. "Didn't want to disappoint."

There is a hint of a smile at Richard's lips. "You can tell her I felt badly after putting your back up," he says, careful, and because Thomas can tell he's trying to be, he decides not to protest the assertion. "If she asks."

"She won't."

He swings his feet off of the windowsill but stays seated, presses his palms against the armrests of the chair.

"Thank you." 

Richard only nods. 

Impassive once more, he says, "does anyone know you're here, Thomas?"

"Yes, in fact," Thomas says shortly. "Mrs Hughes, like I've just said, and Miss Baxter."

"And who you're with?"

"I suppose Mr Miller loved hearing you were off for a rendez-vous with your – "

"Thomas, I'm asking after your wellbeing."

(He says his name more often than anyone else does.)

Thomas huffs and turns his head away.

May as well tell him. He hasn't got a real reason not to, has he.

"Told them I'd be near Grantham," he says evenly. "Said it shouldn't be too hard to remember," and Richard makes a small noise of amusement, "and, er, that we'd be right on the London-Northeastern main line. Baxter asked if I'd be seeing you, which was a daft question, she bloody well knows I haven't got anybody else, and I told the truth 'cause I know she'll…"

Richard tilts his head.

He understands.

"And Mrs Hughes knows me better than my own bloody mother ever did, even if I never tell her anything, so, yes, people know where I am and who I'm with, Richard, because so much as it may _seem_ like it you're not the only person around who gives a damn about me – "

"Christ, is that why you're sniping?"

"I'm not _sniping,_ " he snipes.

And then he takes a deep breath and turns back, looks Richard in the eyes.

"Look, you were gone for a while, okay, I'm…"

"I'm sorry."

"I get nervous," Thomas says.

"I'm sorry," repeats Richard.

"I got worried."

"I can see why."

"I got worried about you."

Richard nods.

"And I got worried about me, too," Thomas mumbles.

"You had every right."

God. 

Richard sticks his hands in his trouser pockets, shifts his weight back and forth on his feet. His turn to avert his eyes, now, but then he looks back, and his face is calm again. Calm and not showing much of anything about what he's feeling.

"You know that I love you, don't you?" he says.

_Can we not do this, please can we not do this…_

Thomas says, "sometimes," and Richard nods again.

When he looks like he's about to say something, Thomas cuts him off. "What about you?"

It takes Richard a second.

"There are people looking after me," he says.

It is the right answer to the right question, but Thomas can tell he's not going to elaborate.

He sighs, gets up to grab the cigarettes from the desk, gives the carton a shake in Richard's direction before opening it. "Don't you let me finish these."

"Would you?" asks Richard casually. 

He doesn't know exactly what he means by the question, what the underlying thought is, and so he has to think about how exactly to answer it.

"Could've done a year ago," says Thomas eventually. "Don't know about now."

"What's the difference?"

"You, for a start," he tells him, curtly, like it's a joke. It isn't. Probably not the best way of going about this sort of thing, but he's been kicking the habit for more than two years now, so what does he know? 

"Trading one vice for another."

Thomas settles back in the chair, raises his eyebrows at him, smirks. His lighter's not in his pocket, which is inconvenient, and he's not sure where he left it.

After a moment's consideration he puts the one he just took out of the box back in, puts the box where his lighter should be.

"Maybe I've found a way to eat my cake and have it, too, Mr Ellis."

Richard finally smiles again. He's still just standing there, when he's probably been standing for the last thirty minutes or however long it ended up being… 

"What was it?" Thomas asks abruptly, and then at the confusion on Richard's face, "whatever it is Evelyn's got in common with the tobacconist."

"Right."

Thomas waits.

Nothing.

If this is going to take an entire inquisition…

"Was it the baby?" Thomas asks. "Because if it was the baby – "

"It was having a brother, actually."

 _Was_ it.

"An alive one," Richard adds.

Thomas huffs.

 _Why do you do this to yourself_ , he could say. _Why the fuck do you do this to yourself. Why do you do it at all._

"I don't know how you do all this," says Thomas. 

He wants very badly to ask about the photographs. He wants to, but he doesn't.

Richard says, "gets easier as time goes on."

"Told me all about that, haven't you."

"Might have done."

"I think it's stupid."

"You and me both, Thomas."

He's not smiling anymore.

Thomas looks at him, surveys. He's not happy with himself, is he? It shouldn't surprise him to see it so plainly on his face with all they've discussed in the past eighteen or so hours, but it does. He told him, though. Out loud, plain and clear. 

That's not something Thomas is going to be able to do anytime soon, is put a name to what's wrong with him and say it just like that.

For one thing, he's got more than one thing causing him issues.

Defying, Richard lifts his chin.

Thomas takes a deep breath.

And then he says, changing the subject, heart pounding in his ears for different reasons, now, "er, I read your book. While you were out."

Although he did know (deep down in the buried rational part of him) that Richard would not, in fact, be cross with him over it, he had not expected him to light up at the revelation. But he's suddenly beaming.

"Just a bit," Thomas hastens to clarify, and God doesn't that sound like Richard, _just a bit,_ "er, obviously I didn't read the whole thing."

"Obviously," says Richard, with his eyebrows raised, and he's moderated his smile. "Well, what'd you think?" 

Before Thomas knows it he's plucked it off the desk.

"I think it's in remarkable condition, Mr Ellis," he says dryly, affected, but as he's saying it he doesn't know why he is, "for something you've read so many times."

Richard blinks. He turns it over in his hands, starts flipping through it.

"Find that surprising, frayed pages and all…"

"I scribble all over things," explains Thomas, "always assume other blokes do the same." Richard tilts his head at him, not smiling at all anymore, and his gut twists. _Don't you talk,_ he wants to say. _You don't leave yourself anywhere_. But he doesn't, only hesitates before continuing, before answering the real question. Honestly. "Erm, I didn't… well, not much for poetry, am I, but, er…" _Be honest._ "I didn't understand it at all. Was like I thought I did and then I looked at a line again and I didn't. I don't know what the hell he's talking about."

Nary a pause.

"Christ, yeah, there's the damn modernists for you, isn't it," says Richard. He shakes his head. "Me, neither. Can't make heads or tails of anything, can't make my mind up... But I want to."

What a relief.

Richard comes round the desk and grabs the chair, drags it over to the window just a few feet away from Thomas to sit in it backwards, legs spread. So he can be improper when he likes, too. 

Thomas doesn't hold back from looking at him.

When Richard turns pages he licks his thumb before swiping at the corner, keeps it on the edge of the paper once it's flipped, smooths it down before continuing. It's mesmerising to the point that Thomas starts to feel light in the head, that he gets butterflies in his stomach. Only a few, and the nice kind. It doesn't even bother him that this has put a stopper into whatever conversation they were having, that he's basically being ignored now, because this is better. It's almost too much for words.

Watching him read is intimate in a way of all its own. He wasn't really paying attention to how he did before, but he is now, and it's the little things (like _how he turns pages_ ) that reel him in. The way he flutters the fingers of his right hand upon the back cover, the way he tilts his head. 

"Gives me a feeling, though," he says after a little while. He looks up at Thomas, pensive. "When I read more than a few lines altogether, I get a feeling. Doesn't make all that much difference, every time I read him I think I've finally gotten what he means by something," a quirk in his lips, "and then I change my mind. But the feeling… it's something I can't put my finger on."

"Well, that's what it's supposed to do, isn't it."

Richard meets his eyes before turning to look out the window.

"What else would we have things like that for if they didn't make us feel anything," Thomas adds. 

A nod.

The words hang in the air for a moment.

"He's like us," Richard says quietly. He closes the book, holds it with one hand, arms dangling over the back of the chair. "Crane is."

Something in Thomas stutters.

"How would you know?" 

The sharp in his voice doesn't seem to affect him.

"Friend of a friend of a friend and so on… get to hearing things, living in London, if you know the right sort."

 _I didn't know you had friends,_ Thomas thinks.

And then he feels stupid, and guilty, because why on Earth wouldn't he have friends? Of course he has fucking friends. He's who he is, Richard "Ray Of Sunshine" Ellis, amiable and affable and what's-not-to-like, and even with all that he's got in his head about being unknowable there's bound to be people he at least keeps in touch with. Like he just said, he lives in London.

It's only he _never bloody talks about them._

"I think it must be true," Richard continues. "Something like this I don't know why anyone would say it if it wasn't. And it changes things, don't you think? Reading him with that in mind."

Thomas nods. Richard still isn't looking at him and he doesn't know if he even saw it, so he stops biting his tongue and says, tentative, "so you've got friends up in London."

_Please look at me._

"Yeah," Richard says. He starts running his thumb along a carving in the chair, looks at the floor. "Don't know 'em all that well, not truly."

"But you call them your friends."

And they're close enough they tell him about the personal lives of poets who aren't even English, _the right sort,_ which probably means… 

"I don't get out much, with work," he almost smiles again, "but you'll know what that's like… and most of them, we met years ago owing to having the one thing in common," (and Thomas feels his mouth go dry and his head start to feel like it's full of lint) "but we've not got much else these days, aside from service, with a few. I'm not the only valet in London with more than one reason not to marry."

Sometimes he wishes he'd just call it like it is.

"But, you share something like that with a bloke it's tough to let go of each other, even if your interests change… that's how it is, isn't it, you meet people and you move on from each other but you can't seem to part all the same, not when there're things bigger than yourselves keeping you tied up together."

That is a good description of the absolute opposite of what Thomas's entire life has been like.

He stares at him.

"I wouldn't know."

Richard doesn't stare back, just keeps tracing the shapes in the wood; Thomas worries he's going to get a splinter.

"That's right," he says quietly. "You wouldn't."

"You can't throw a stone in any direction in Yorkshire and hit a – "

 _Why in the bloody hell would you say such a thing,_ he scolds himself.

It's this that makes Richard finally look up at him. He's frowning, but not in an angry-at-him way.

Thomas shrinks back all the same.

Richard says, "thanks," sarcastic. Then there is a breath, a shuddering exhale, and he is slightly more sincere: "thanks, Thomas, for not finishing that sentence."

Thomas is holding his breath, himself, and even as he's aware of it he can't make himself stop.

"Sorry," Richard says. "I – I'm so sorry, Thomas."

Thomas squeezes his eyes shut; his hands stiffen up; he curls and flexes his fingers. He manages to breathe out all at once, in a rush.

"I'm sorry," repeats Richard.

"It's not your fault," he mutters.

"Wish I could do something about it."

"You can't."

"But if I could, Thomas – "

"But you can't, can you, Richard," Thomas snaps, and when he opens his eyes he's being looked at so purposefully he wishes he hadn't wanted to be seen at all. "You can't do anything except – except be here and talk to me and you're bloody doing that already, so – "

Tears sting at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't regularly cry when he's angry or frustrated, hasn't much since he was a boy, but with Richard it's like everything he's held back in him for the last twenty years comes out whenever it gets a chance, no matter how much he doesn't want it to. Thomas swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and takes a deep breath, then another, and Richard doesn't say anything. 

But it goes away on its own after a minute or two.

Eventually Richard says, uncomfortable, "suppose that's more of an answer than you wanted…"

He trails off; Thomas nods. It was less of an answer, actually, but he can go on.

"...but yeah, I – I've got friends."

Thomas swallows. 

"These are, er… when you said people're looking after you…"

"Yeah."

 _Tell me more, please,_ but he doesn't. Instead he opens up the book again, leafs through it with purpose. 

Maybe it's a good thing. He'd probably get more than he bargained for if he did. If anyone could be friends with his former _lovers_ it's probably him.

But Thomas doesn't know _anybody_.

They quiet, then stay that way. Richard finds whatever page he's looking for and holds it open for a while, eyes flitting back and forth.

"Wanna read this one to you," he says eventually, slowly. Seriously.

Thomas nods. He is holding his breath again and he doesn't know why.

They look at one another for a moment longer in silence.

"Shall I turn on a light?" Thomas asks, and it ruins the moment, but so would figuring out they need one right when he's halfway through a stanza or something — and it's definitely dark, now that he's noticed it, that would probably happen first thing, so best to take care of it now. He does without waiting for an answer, and when he starts to go back to the window Richard meets him halfway, book in one hand, nothing in the other.

Until he has Thomas's cheek in his palm and is kissing him, and Thomas gets weak in the knees, can't react; Richard pushes him toward the bed; he falls. It catches him, and then Richard's seated next to him, nuzzling at his neck and collar.

After a kiss to his ear he opens up the book again.

"This one's not a love poem." A pause. "Not that sort."

"Go on," Thomas says, but Richard doesn't.

Instead he brings his hand up to his head again, fingers in his hair, and says softly, "lay your head in my lap."

Thomas raises his eyebrows even as he leans his head into his palm. "Planned this all out, have you?"

Richard is pink in his cheeks and his ears, and seeing it Thomas cannot help but smile. God, he'd do anything for him.

He leans forward to peck him on the cheek, then pulls his legs up onto the bed and curls them, settles with his head upon his thighs.

"Bloody romantic," he mutters.

"We don't have to – "

"Oh, shut up, Richard," Thomas says flippantly, "I'm more of one than you are, aren't I."

"Are you?"

"Yes," and he blindly reaches up to touch his face, probably only barely succeeds in not poking him in the eye. He presses his palm to his jaw, and Richard hums.

"You've already got stubble," he tells him, thinking aloud.

"Do I?"

"Yes," and for reasons he couldn't explain, Thomas scratches underneath the top of his jaw like he's a cat. It makes him hum again, content and satisfied. Warms his heart. "You are badly groomed, Mr Ellis."

Richard laughs, and Thomas can almost feel it, his hand where it is.

He pulls away, strokes the side of his neck with his knuckles as he does so. "Can I shave you tomorrow?"

"If you let me read this to you, Thomas, yeah."

"Liked having you do it this morning."

"You looked like you'd flinch."

"Well, I'm not used to being on that side of the razor, am I?"

The words do not land how he'd have liked.

Thomas rolls over enough that he can look up at Richard properly. "I'll do a fine job of it," he says, like he didn't say the other thing at all. "You won't find my valet skills lacking."

"I don't find you lacking at all," Richard says after a moment. "Save for doing as you're told."

Thomas reaches back up again and pats him on the cheek, "tsk tsk."

And then when Richard, looking down at him, breaks out into a smile, he adds, "go on and read it, then, woo me," and Richard settles back on the bed and opens up the book again.

"It's not a love poem," he repeats.

"But you love me, don't you?"

Richard pauses midway through turning a page, hovers — it's not affront or shock or anything like that, not a _bad_ pause. Thomas can see that he's smiling. Because of him asking silly attention-seeking questions and saying foolish sentimental drivel. Never gets old.

"Yeah," Richard says eventually, and then he's moving again, breathing. He switches the book to his other hand and starts stroking his forehead to his hairline; it is unexpected but not unwelcome. "Yeah, Thomas, more than anything."

"Good. You, too."

 _Sometimes_ is now.

He closes his eyes.

Richard hesitates for another moment, his hand stills at Thomas's head and that's how he can tell, but then he begins. "[My grandmother's love letters](http://web.archive.org/web/20200307135418/https://poets.org/poem/my-grandmothers-love-letters)," he says. 

Thomas did read this one earlier.

It will be different this way.

"There are no stars tonight but those of memory," Richard reads, "yet how much room for memory there is, in the loose girdle of soft rain. There is even room enough for the letters of my mother's mother…" 

Though he made fun, though it's _not a love poem,_ lying here like this listening to him is probably the most romantic thing he's ever been through — it isn't a very long list, but it was one without any additions to it for years on end, and now since knowing Richard he's been able to start adding things to it again. Many things. He has been making an effort and putting care and regard into everything he's done for him since the very beginning.

It's never been like that before. Now that he has it he doesn't know what he'll ever do if it goes away.

When Richard reads the poem aloud, he puts pauses in different places than Thomas had in his head, lingers over different words, turns lines in new ways with his tongue. It does not make him understand poetry, it does not bring him to any conclusions worthy of a literary review or turn him into a modernist, but it adds something that hadn't been there before, something vast. Deep. He doesn't have to think about _how_ he's meant to be listening, he just does, unthinkingly.

The poem isn't long at all, but when he's finished Richard doesn't prompt him or ask any questions, lets it sit properly.

Thomas opens his mouth.

There's a feeling in his head and limbs he can't put a name to. He breathes in and out through his mouth, wonders if he should even try, if it's worth describing how this just made him feel. It would probably be fruitless; he'd just babble on not making sense…

"Read it again," he says.

"Yeah?"

Surprised, but not displeased.

"Yeah, read it again."

After a considering pause, he does. Thomas is thankful that after the first time he doesn't slow or quicken his pace, that he doesn't alter his voice — because it is his own voice, he's not slipped into being somebody else or putting on a gravitas he doesn't mean, he's reading the words and breathing them out as himself. It's more honest than he is when he's saying things out of his own head, even.

Not all of his choices are the same this time, but that one is. And that one's the most important.

"...of what she would not understand, and so I stumble, and the rain continues on the roof with such a sound of gently pitying laughter."

He closes the book with a soft _pat_ and sets it aside. No more rereads, then, but he wasn't going to ask again. Thomas takes a deep breath, lifts his head up away from his hand to look at him. "You're daft," he says. Richard looks down at him, a twitch at the corners of his mouth. "That's absolutely a fucking love poem, even if it's not for a lover – was it?"

"For a lover?"

"Yeah."

"Doesn't say if so," Richard says, light and airy but with a more evident smile. "Why do you think?" 

"'Cause it _is,_ " he says, insistent. "It's about – fuck, this is why I dislike poetry."

And Richard laughs. "Eye of the beholder, Mr Barrow."

"But you wanted to read me that one," says Thomas, smiling now himself, he only ever smiles like this with him, "and I _am_ your lover, so I think you agree with me, Mr Ellis," and he ducks his head and pulls himself off of his lap, sits beside him cross-legged. He pulls the box of cigarettes out of his pocket because it's there. "I think you agree with me even if you don't care to admit it."

Richard is staring at him.

When he notices, he starts to put the box back, but he's quelled by a shake of the head.

The lighter is on the night table, at the base of the lamp. Why that's so he cannot remember for the life of him, but he takes it, and seeing that Richard is not going to snap out of it goes ahead and lights up. The man is focused, Thomas will give him that, it's not a vacant look at all. His eyes follow his hands, he blinks at the spark and flame, and Thomas suspects he is staring at his lips and cheeks as he sucks in. Vanity, arrogance, smugness, whatever, damn all that, it makes him feel _excellent_ being looked at that way.

Doesn't so much that he's not said a word.

"What," he says eventually, smoke unfurling from his mouth, putting a haze between them; Thomas turns his head and shoulders and scolds himself.

"You've never called yourself my lover before."

Thomas blinks at him. "Of course I have."

"No, I'd remember," says Richard. He leans over to untie his shoes, and it becomes Thomas's turn to watch… the man makes his living fastening buckles and tying laces, and God must he earn it.

Many things those hands can do.

This time Thomas remembers to exhale away from them, out into the room. "Well, it's true, isn't it?"

Richard says nothing: he brings his feet up onto the bed and makes to sit at Thomas's back, lays his hands upon his shoulders and squeezes.

"It is."

"You say you're mine," Thomas returns, a defensive tinge to his voice. "Why shouldn't I say I'm yours?"

"Can't think of a reason," Richard murmurs, lips suddenly very close to his ear, and Thomas stills. 

"Hasn't been all that long, you know," he says pointedly, and Richard laughs, kisses the side of his head and musses up his hair (it's growing in again) and pats him on the back, moves to sit across from him.

"Didn't mean that by it — but yeah, Thomas, you are my lover," with unwavering conviction, "and I am yours."

"Glad it's mutual," smirking.

Richard reaches out to his knee. "What else'd you think of it, though? The poem."

Thomas stops with his cigarette halfway to his mouth, looks down at his hand. "Liked it better when you read it, that's for certain."

"Makes a difference, doesn't it."

He nods. "Don't exactly have people around to read poems to me often," ever, "and I feel stupid reading them out loud by myself. So."

"It's not stupid," Richard says gently.

"Said it felt that way, not that it was." He takes another drag, waits, but though Richard's eyes are on him he doesn't say anything more, so after a moment he asks, "you do that?"

And Richard fumbles, eyes a little wide and mouth slightly open; he pulls his hand away.

Happens to him so rarely, to Thomas's knowledge, and it takes him by surprise whenever he sees it.

Thomas says, "it's not stupid," just as soft as he had been with him. "If you do."

Actually, he's beginning to think that nothing Richard does could ever be stupid just because he's the one doing it, although he's sure if he said that he might disagree… or agree in the sort of way that makes it clear he does, under the surface. That self-deprecating Devil-may-care sense of humour. 

"Every so often," says Richard.

But he's not so assured now.

"Just as you said," Thomas says, trying to sound casual, not to make a thing of it. He keeps smoking. "It makes a difference."

He wishes he hadn't said it, though. There's always a trouble in saying things like that about yourself when others are around to hear it, is if they hear you they'll think the same of themselves even if you'd never feel that way about them… and apparently even the man in front of him feels that way.

Neither of them are infallible, not truly.

Richard turns from him, but at the moment Thomas reaches out toward him he's far enough away not to touch — 

He takes the ashtray from the nighttable and sets it beside Thomas's legs, puts his hand back where it had been, a gentle weight upon his thigh. "Those all right?" he asks, a tilt of his head toward the one in his hand.

Thomas nods. It takes him a second to be able to speak; he can't take his eyes off of him all of a sudden. "Better than the ones I brought," he says eventually, a murmur.

"Are they?"

With more confidence, but not so much cheek as he'd like: "'cause you bought them for me, yeah."

 _What nonsense,_ but he won't stop saying things like it any time soon.

It at least gets him smiling again, and then he pulls away to lie down diagonally upon the bed, arm bent under him and his head propped up on his hand, just looking up at him.

There are many, many things that Thomas could say to him now, but he's breathless.

He dabs the ash off of his cigarette and looks away from him, toward the window — odd that it's dark now, that the day was so short and yet they were able to cram so much into it. _Fucking winter,_ but there's something to be said for having someone to share it with.

He swallows.

"You close with your family?" he asks. "Grandparents?"

"Died when I was a boy," Richard says. "Both sides. Yours?"

"Mine, too."

They don't talk about this much, aside from the broader details, but after what's just happened he has a need to. He won't fulfill it; he can't go all the way. He's not interested in bawling again. But he can scratch the itch.

Richard doesn't say anything.

"Funny to think of, isn't it," says Thomas quietly. "All those people came before us, generation after generation, and now…"

"Here we are," Richard finishes for him, with more light in his voice than Thomas has. It's false. He's putting it on. Now's one of the times he's confident he can tell the difference. "End of the line."

"My parents decided they were done after me," Thomas tells him. "Only wanted a boy. Don't think they liked each other very much, seeing as they managed it," and he puffs again from the cigarette, closes his eyes, just sits. "But they ought've gone for an heir and a spare."

"Speaking as a spare…"

Thomas laughs, just once and from his chest; he's nervous. "Guess that doesn't always work out either."

"Guess so," returns Richard, more thoughtful than anything else. "I was a lucky baby. Ones came after never made it." He pauses. "Lucky man, too."

 _Why did you bring this up,_ he asks himself, but maybe he was meant to. Maybe Richard wanted him to. Why else would he have chosen to read him something like that out of a book that _did_ have love poems in it.

"Cousins?" Thomas asks.

"Distant ones, though I don't know 'em. Mum's brother is still a butler and her sister was at the big house 'til she died, so I haven't got any close. Got service too deep in our blood."

And he laughs at that, too, but Richard doesn't say anything, doesn't seem to mind. He says, just to finish it seems like, "and I'm not in touch with the Ellises. You?"

"Aplenty. Send Christmas cards with a few of them," every other year at most, "but haven't seen any in years. The ones worth talking to aren't in England."

"They know?"

"Everybody I've ever met knows," he says shortly, and then Richard has his hand on his knee again, steadying. "Everybody's always known. Before I even did. And maybe I – "

He falters.

"What's that?"

"Maybe I did know." He squeezes his eyes shut. Words spill from his mouth. "Look, it's that…. you know the things you're supposed to have in common with your parents and your aunts and uncles and everybody who brought you up eventually, the things that make you get close to them once you're old enough, the – the loving somebody and starting a family stuff, I didn't do that, did I, and I think I always knew I wouldn't, so it was me knowing it was never gonna get anywhere from the beginning that killed it, and I never..." 

He trails off.

"That wasn't what killed it, Thomas."

Forcing himself to keep some resolve, Thomas takes a deep breath, exhales — then does that again but through the cigarette.

"Yes, it was."

"Look at me," Richard murmurs. "Thomas."

He turns, opens his eyes, and for some reason is surprised that the lamp is on, as if it weren't there beyond his eyelids, a haze of red and orange and white he couldn't force away. His eyes sting but he's not crying; he isn't in too deep yet.

Richard has relaxed onto his arm now. Serene, but for the crease in his brow and concern in his eyes, little disturbances that are all Thomas's own fault.

"That wasn't what killed it," he repeats.

Thomas nods.

"Feels like it."

"Wasn't your fault."

"Okay."

He's _not_ crying, and he's not going to start.

Another deep breath.

Willpower wins this time.

"You've done some of it," Richard says to him, softly. "We both have done. Just different."

"Not in a way that…"

"That they'd understand, no." A beat. "But I think they would if they tried."

"Rather pretend they can't."

Richard presses himself up, claps Thomas on the arm and rubs up and down a few times, soothing friction. "I don't blame you, not a bit."

They sit in silence until Thomas's breaths come at an even, steady pace, until he's stopped feeling the need to keep _using_ willpower, until he's calm on his own.

Until smoking is no longer satisfying.

He stubs it out, says, absentmindedly, "I have a sore mouth."

"Is there a reason for that?" asks Richard, and Thomas's glare is half-hearted at best. He shakes his head. He knows what he's feeling, and he thinks he knows why.

"No," he starts, "I, er," but then he fumbles. 

What he's about to say is very foolish. 

Richard raises his eyebrows at him, and he looks down at his lap, bashful. Very foolish, but then, far and away from other foolish things he's said to Richard, and lo and behold here they are still together despite all of that. 

"I think it's from smiling. Earlier, I mean." 

Because he wasn't doing much smiling just now.

But this doesn't seem to make it any more difficult for Richard to break into a grin, broad, with light in his eyes. He's a completely different man than he was five minutes ago. "You're the sweetest man I've ever met in my life."

"Am I the _first_ man you've ever met in your life?"

"Fortunately," Richard says, "no," and then before he knows it Richard has taken him by the shoulders and Thomas is being kissed with more verve than he would have thought either of them were capable of at the moment; they're toppled over and his shoulders are pressed into the sheets and he's hovering over him again for the umpteenth time. "Everyone else'd be a disappointment if you were," he adds, and Thomas is unable to catch his breath before he's bloody on him again, mouthing at his lower lip and then using his teeth, too, tugging, and Thomas hums into his mouth and lets it happen. It's breathing life back into his lungs, pushing the dark thoughts back into the unlit corners of his head and bringing the better ones into the light. He stops _letting_ and starts _doing,_ kissing Richard back and reaching up to thread his fingers into his hair, holding him close.

Verve, it turns out, isn't the half of it. 

"You are like a fucking adolescent, you know that," Thomas scolds when they part for air. He's lighthearted in it, or is trying to be. But it's easier to come up from the low places with him, and this is as good a reason to as any. "Blimey, Richard, it's bloody exhausting," but he's already reaching down to unfasten his trousers. 

"You're so good to me," Richard breathes; though he'd looked worried for a moment, doubtful, he's got that wonderful smile of his back on his face and a twinkle in his eye. When Thomas gets the last of the buttons and untucks his shirt and slips his hand through the gap of his underwear, taking hold of him…

"So good to me," he repeats, this time with a soft gasp, and in a slow, controlled fashion he lets himself fall slowly to lie half-on-half-beside Thomas, a curve in his back, pressing his hips. 

At first Thomas keeps things slow, hand loose around him as he strokes. He's being intentional with it — both because he's petty and he likes to tease (and add to that he's got to be careful with nothing to make this slip), and because he knows he is going to want to remember this later, is going to want to think about Richard's leg hitched up across his thighs and his weight on his body and the way he presses himself into his hand, the hints of voice in his breath (but no more than hints, he's not too far gone yet) as he inhales and exhales against Thomas's neck, lips wet around the collar of his shirt. Because it's everything, even if he can't appreciate it properly right now, and maybe that they're doing this _now_ after what they've just gone over says something about them, but Thomas only wants to give and so he's only going to think about giving.

"Tell me when you're close," he murmurs. "Darling." He kisses the top of his head, if awkwardly.

Richard gasps. He's tilting his hips toward his hand and has pulled himself up such that he's mouthing under his jaw in a prolonged and very wet kiss, needy; Thomas flutters his fingers at his bollocks before stilling entirely. He says, in what he hopes is an offhand sort of way, "if you wanted to bruise me again you should have thought of that before getting hard again without _undressing yourself_ ," and though Richard's hips jerk he stops mouthing at him, turns his head to the side and merely _breathes._

Last thing he needs is a purple mark where people can see it, but for a moment he loses himself and imagines what it'd be like if he could have that, if Richard could leave traces of himself — because he _does,_ Thomas realises, it's rare and it's special but he does, with his letters and his gifts and with _this_. If he could be bitten and sucked on and bruised and nobody'd bat an eye but they'd know he was spoken for, that he was somebody's. Not even _normal people_ get to have that, of course, but the thought of him having it is thrilling.

Thomas strokes Richard at an even pace until his gasps and sighs become whimpers, and then he quickens, tightens his hold slightly, rubs at the head with his palm and gives slow, deliberate strokes to each side. 

"Thomas," he breathes, hips canting.

"Yes?"

"Thomas – "

"Almost there?"

" _Yeah_."

"What, already?"

Richard whines, a beautifully undignified sound, and Thomas laughs, endeared, a genuine one that doesn't just spill over from his nerves; he wraps his thumb and finger around him and squeezes.

Doesn't that get an even better moan out of him.

"Come in my mouth," he says, and at Richard's noise of indignance adds, "you realise we're wearing _clothes_ – "

"But," starts Richard, breathily, strained, he's somewhere between laughing and crying out in frustration, he can tell, "but – "

"Can't bloody use your own, can you?" Thomas retorts. "Be my guest if you _want_ to make a mess all over yourself, but having just bloody done it a few hours ago I wouldn't call it a – "

But Richard pushes himself off of his chest, and Thomas releases him.

Somehow they make it work: Richard bracing his hands upon the headboard, kneeling above his mouth, his cock heavy on his tongue even only halfway inside. Thomas swallows around him, sucks for only a moment before he's spending himself, salt and musk upon his tongue and down his throat. He works him through it, takes satisfaction in his little whimpers and the way his body tenses, and then once he's soft waits very patiently for him to come back to himself.

Somehow they make it back to where they started, only he's got a slight crick in his neck this time.

"Thanks," Richard says breathlessly. "Oh, Thomas, I love you, you're wonderful, just wonderful for me," and he carries on babbling nonsense like that in a mumble that makes him blush _furiously_ before trailing off and nestling his head once more in the crook of his neck, his breathing steady and tranquil.

And for a little while Thomas lets him, because he's loathe to disturb him and he needs a moment to catch his breath, himself…

But not for too long.

There's an odd taste on his tongue, and his mouth is not any less sore than it was.

He's not going to do that again when he's not in the mood. It's not especially pleasant out of context.

"...I'm going to brush my teeth," he says, and Richard nods, makes a noncommittal noise and then reaches out for him as he gets out of bed in a way that makes Thomas suspect he didn't actually hear what he's just said.

In the washroom he stares into the mirror before doing anything else.

His attention is drawn first to where his shirt is undone in the middle — must've happened by accident, with Richard squirming on top of him. He does them up again, two buttons, then palms at his front to smooth out what he can. 

At his collar there is a damp spot, a blotch of fabric darker than the rest, and he can feel it on his neck.

Flushed cheeks, swollen lips… all this from only a minute of having a cock in his mouth. What the hell has he looked like the rest of the time? It's debauched, is what it is — and when an old ugly feeling rears its head in him, he tamps it down, reminds himself adamantly that nothing about this is wrong. Nothing about this is perverted or degenerate or foul or whatever else he's been called over the years.

He believes that. He has had his struggles, has had times when he didn't want to be how he was, but he has never wavered in believing it wholeheartedly. He has ever since he looked at a boy (when he _was_ a boy, and that seems to get further and further away as the years pass, more than it should) and felt like he could move mountains if he wanted. 

Making love may as well be the same thing, the lengths they've got to go for it. Just because it's different doesn't make it wrong, or hard to understand.

Only thing fucked up here is that, is all they've got to do to make this possible. What it looks like on the outside because people think they get a better picture peering through curtains than coming up to the front door, and they've got no control over the shutters.

That and how Richard looks like a fucking Adonis and he still can't ever seem to get it up for him when he wants to. 

Thomas washes his hands, after which he grabs the jar of toothpaste and his toothbrush, takes several minutes to do it properly and then rinses until all he can taste is baking soda.

Probably won't taste very nice if Richard wants to kiss him, but… oh, well.

Back in the room, the man is almost exactly as he left him.

"You had a point about my mouth," he admits as he crawls back into bed.

"Yeah, we're not going to do that again." Richard's still out of breath, but smiling broadly; he's taken off his waistcoat, trousers and braces, loosened his tie. There is something quaint and humourous about him lying there dressed in his shirt and underwear, knees bare between his shorts and garters. Thomas sets his hand on his neck and draws a line down from his shoulder to his shirt cuff, following a pinstripe along his sleeve. "Not for a bit, at least."

They intertwine their hands, and Thomas relaxes beside him, flat on his back.

"Done a lot, though, haven't we," he murmurs.

"Yeah."

With each other. To each other. Together.

He thinks about what just happened, what they were speaking of, and then he thinks of earlier in the day. They haven't only done a lot, they've thought a lot, shared a lot.

"Before me," Thomas murmurs, his voice all soft and vulnerable in a way he's decided he doesn't mind it being so long as it's only with Richard, "what was… were you with anyone for a long time?"

A moment's pause.

"Had a few last," Richard answers. "None as serious as this."

Thomas wonders if he's just saying that.

He's not going to ask, he trusts him, but in the back of his mind he does wonder. After everything he's learned in the last day and a half, he wonders, because he has been coming to see that Richard's right about not knowing himself. That he doesn't always realise what he's doing — what _he's_ doing, in an emotional sense or something, because he knows how to get things around him to do what he wants, knows what it is that he wants for that matter, but he maybe doesn't always know _why_ he wants what he does. Or perhaps he may tell himself different reasons than the real ones.

Thomas has done that before himself, after all.

For a time he got very good at it, but it never lasted.

His problem is he _doesn't_ know what he wants, at all, full stop. Not anymore. 

"Longest was about a couple of years, but it wasn't right. Didn't feel like I wanted it to."

Longer than the two of them have had, though.

"Do I?"

There goes his mouth again.

Richard's silent; Thomas scrambles: "do I, er, does this feel like you – "

Without hesitation: "yeah."

And the little back-of-his-mind voice comes back, the one that says _he's lying,_ but he squashes it, because what reason does he _have_ to lie?

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, feels like we were meant for each other," says Richard, thoughtful, casual, like those aren't the loveliest words he's ever said to him (and he's said many lovely things), like he hasn't been waiting his entire life for someone to feel that way about him and to reciprocate the feeling and for it to _last_ , last like this has lasted, and Thomas is suddenly hyperaware of his own heartbeat. 

One minute he's a nervous wreck over the notion that he loves him _that much,_ the next…

"Bit silly, isn't it, that we're only talking about this now."

"We've talked about lots of other things," Thomas tells him. He's coming off as too earnest for his liking, but it's true, even if he's beginning to see that there's lots left. But they started out talking, after all. Spent hours during the Royal Visit just _talking,_ in the car from York and then on the walk up to the house. In the morning.

They hadn't as much this summer, they'd been getting to know one another in a different way, learning how to be near one another in the same space, learning how the other fits into the world and trying to see if there was room left for one more, but before that, at Downton… 

"We have."

How they first knew, their first times, what it's been like just _living_. But even though he was drunk on the feeling of being understood, even though he spilled half his heart out and was more forward with his interest than he'd ever been with anybody… Thomas still managed to keep his cards close to his chest.

He's been playing them gradually ever since, and he's realising now more than ever that Richard has been doing the same.

Thomas has never lied to him, but he's held back, on some things. The things he's most ashamed of. The things he's most afraid of.

He has to wonder now what's been kept from him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a gentle reminder that the views expressed by characters in my fanfiction are not necessarily my own... but sometimes they are! you'll have to guess which are which.
> 
> additional note: if you're noticing similarities between this and another explicit thomas/richard fic, they're accidental & independently created, but we're aware and we're high fiving over them.
> 
> **bibliography:**
> 
>   * _white buildings_ is a collection of poetry by queer american poet hart crane, published in 1926. most of the research for this chapter was me trying to figure out how plausible it would be for his work to be in england two years later and for richard to actually Know, and i determined that that's Fairly, assuming he's well-connected. the poem featured, as linked above, is [my grandmother's love letters (web.archive)](http://web.archive.org/web/20200307135418/https://poets.org/poem/my-grandmothers-love-letters).
>   * _the mystery of the blue train_ by agatha christie is a detective novel featuring the poirot character & was published in spring 1928. no idea if the books were the same size. artistic liberties, folks.
>   * _the plumed serpent_ is a very political novel by d.h. lawrence that was published in 1926. it was polarizing then and remains so now.
>   * _to the lighthouse_ by virginia woolf was published in may 1927; the royal visit takes place in july 1927.
> 



	8. dead lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for your wonderful comments on the last chapter, i love them & appreciate them but haven't been up to replying to things! my life's been hectic because i had to cancel all of my plans to leave the country i was living in due to the pandemic and now i'm safe but ill. 
> 
> honestly this chapter feels like a mess but i've spent so much time on it i really just need to release it into the wild. so here we are! no sex in this one. (i think the next chapter will be entirely sex, though don't quote me on that.) once more an indetermined total number of chapters. this one's like, 12.5k words or something. #noideawhatiamdoing 
> 
> **content notes/warnings:** mentions of suicide, interpersonal relationship troubles (they fight), homophobia, depression, etc. business as usual.

"Haven't thought about some of those blokes for years…"

"Sorry to remind you."

"Not sorry to remember," says Richard thoughtfully. He's sitting up and has been trailing his fingertips up and down Thomas's arm for most of the conversation, but he stops then, leaving only a light touch at his wrist bone. Hovering. Thomas doesn't know how he hasn't noticed this before now, his habits, the way he needs to be doing something with his hands at all times… and when he stops, it means he's got something on his mind to use up the restless energy before it can reach his hands. "For the most part."

That would do it.

"Wish you hadn't… er, I wish you hadn't, erm, been hurt so much."

Richard looks down at him, a turn in his mouth but the rest of him unreadable. "Thanks," soft.

"Guess that's our lot in life."

"Doesn't have to be."

And then he's tracing lines along his skin again. Thomas finds he can only look up at him; his mouth has gone dry. When Richard looks away, he blinks a few times, hard, like he's willing tears away, but he isn't. He feels okay.

Jealous. Jealous down deep in his gut, and in the back of his mind more aware than he wants to be of all he does and doesn't have in common with all the men Richard's loved before. Thinking he falls short.

But okay.

"It isn't with you," murmurs Richard.

Thomas nods. He's resting his head back on his elbow and it's sort of awkward to do so. 

What can he say to words like that?

"Hope not," he whispers. Whether or not they need to be hushed, they are, and it makes this all feel more serious than it is. It _is_ serious, just not this much. (Probably only feels that way because of the possessive streak he didn't know he still had in him showing up again. Of course it's bloody serious; he just doesn't want it to be because he's pathetic.)

Richard looks away. He's smiling for real now, but it's not a happy one, doesn't reach his eyes; he's either down on himself or on Thomas. Thomas doesn't know which option he'd prefer.

"Don't know what you see in me sometimes."

And _that_ makes his gut twist more than anything else.

"You don't know what I see in you," Thomas repeats. 

"Sometimes."

"Do I not tell you?"

To him it feels like his letters are full of that, just an embarrassing mess of him telling Richard all about how he feels for him in as plain terms as he can stick in a letter without getting a scolding over it. They're love letters as much as they're plain old correspondence, and his heart spills over every time he opens an envelope from Richard — where the hell else is he meant to put that? They're miles away from each other (and God doesn't the thought of that bother him more than ever now he knows Richard's had lovers _within his own household_ …) and he hasn't got anywhere else.

"Oh, you tell me," he returns, and he squeezes his forearm before drawing his hand away. "More than I tell you."

At least he's aware of that part, but if even that isn't enough, if the letters don't get it all across and he has occasion to doubt up in London when Thomas can't be there to convince him himself… 

"So, what, you don't believe me?"

That does get a genuine smile out of him — a laugh, actually. Embarrassment curdles in his stomach.

"You are a pot calling the kettle black, Mr Barrow."

"You said it yourself you don't tell me so much as I tell you," he returns, an edge in his voice he tries to reel back in. "I've got an excuse."

Or he'll pretend like he does. Easier than reckoning with the fact that he struggles with all this now and always has and probably always _will_ and that he does for no good reason at all.

"Yeah," says Richard. "Yeah, we'll have to see about that list, won't we?"

Of course, the likelihood of that making Thomas act reasonable in all this is slim, and they both know it. He's needy. Always has been. _Unlike the rest of them..._ and he knows Richard would be cross with him for making comparisons but he can't fucking help it, not when he's been with all sorts and has foolish ideas about what's his fault and what isn't. Anybody who threw over Richard Ellis doesn't know good when they see it, that's his opinion. 

Can't say that of himself, though, can he? Everyone who's left him has had reasons for it.

It's funny. This summer he'd mentioned some of his relationship history — mostly just to convince Thomas he wasn't the only man in the world who'd fucked up in life and love. And that had been comforting, then, but now that he's got the whole story he can't help but feel like Richard's been bringing himself down to Thomas's level to make him feel better when he's always been above.

Not good enough, that's what this feeling is. He's lived with it so long he forgets it's a burden on everybody he gets close to, him needing to be reminded and convinced all the time… 

"Thomas," and Richard hooks his thumb beneath Thomas's rolled up sleeve and tugs, which does draw him out of his spiralling.

"Richard."

"Care to share what's going on in that head of yours?"

There are delicate ways to put it, probably. He tries to find one; they don't need a repeat of yesterday.

"You've got more experience than I do," Thomas says eventually. 

"Got more experience than plenty of blokes," Richard replies. He tilts his head. "If we're talking numbers."

That may be true, but…

"And I've got less than plenty of blokes," so the gap is a pretty big one.

"Quality over quantity, Mr Barrow," says Richard, wry. "I make the same mistakes over and over again."

Present tense.

"I haven't ever been able to tell the difference," Thomas says. It's not meant to be an accusation, he's talking about _himself,_ but it sounds like one. "Don't have enough information."

Richard meets his eyes. 

"But I'm hardly your first," he says, guarded.

"First who's stuck around much more than a year."

Hasn't had that since the fucking 1900s. He'd barely made it a year with Philip, and everybody before him was child's play, even if some of them did last longer. Those don't really count, though. They were child's play because he was a child.

"If that," Thomas adds. "Before you, I – " He takes a deep breath and tries not to break eye contact. "Told you this, haven't I, but you're the first man I've had for longer than a night in a bloody decade."

A nod.

"I kept that letter."

"Can't imagine why."

It had to have been the first or second one after the visit, him embarrassing himself by dumping his heart onto the page and begging him to actually keep in touch like he'd asked… and then who was the one who had almost ruined everything, despite what he'd already asked for?

"Should've burnt it," Richard says lightly. "Keep it safe locked in my desk now, with the others."

"And to think you scolded me over writing it in the bloody first place…"

But he tries to smile, to tease, gentle. If this is making him nervous it's only because Richard's rubbed off on him. He's bad at being cautious in these things.

"You burn any of mine?" asks Richard, and Thomas shrugs.

"When you ask me. Or if it's... if I know it'd get you in trouble."

Richard nods, turns his head away. "I haven't even managed that, actually."

Thomas stares.

"I blot out the names," he adds. "Names, and places. I don't keep the envelopes." A pause. "I'm careful."

"Blimey, you really don't take your own advice, do you."

And that gets him fidgeting again, fingers crossing over the quilt and tugging at yarn.

"I like to have the reminders," he says quietly. 

God.

"Well, can't blame you for that." But something dawns on him. "But you do keep the envelopes," Thomas tells him pointedly. "Or you kept one."

And he doesn't know what to feel about it.

"You did go through that book, didn't you?"

"What was it from?" Thomas returns. He grabs Richard's hand and squeezes. "If you remember."

"I don't," he replies, sheepish. "It's from ages ago, just like to have it with me. Book I'm reading's a good place."

"You've told me not to give you anything – "

"I have done, and I stand by it – "

"But I _could,_ though," he insists, "I could."

"Thomas, I've got much more to lose than you have, and it'd be unwise to – "

_Go ahead and just fucking stab me while you're at it, it'd hurt less._

"...Christ, that – that sounds horrid, doesn't it."

"Excuse me for bloody caring," he returns, sneering, and, petulant but nonetheless with his heart pounding and pressure building up in his throat, Thomas rolls over to face away from him. 

"Thomas – "

"It's true, all right? But I already bloody know you're better than I am," he snaps, but then he finds he _can't,_ and the next part's only a mumble: "stop fucking reminding me."

"But it isn't true," Richard murmurs. "Thomas, it's…"

Thomas huffs.

"I'm sorry," and Richard touches him again, now at his shoulder. "I apologise."

 _Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths,_ and Richard pulls his hand away only to lay it upon his own, which is flexing and curling and he hadn't even really realised –

"Don't touch me," he breathes. "Don't you touch me," and it takes two times and some seconds but Richard does, letting go of him and then moving back on the bed, too, parting from him all the way.

He does listen, at least. When it's things like that.

"Is this really about – "

"No," Thomas says, turning his face into the quilt. He's behaving like a child and he wishes he weren't.

"Can we…"

But Richard trails off.

The quiet that falls is uncomfortable, and it's made even worse by the fact that he can't hear rain anymore: it may be dark and gray outside, but that's over for now. So it's silence, really, more than quiet. He almost wishes Richard hadn't given in so quick, that he was still trying to hold him and be close, because so much as it was making his skin crawl (making him nervous) it was encouraging in a way, because it was a reminder that he at least bloody cared. And now that it's not there anymore he's not exactly doing a good job of convincing himself that that's still the case. Because Thomas knows what's come over him. This would probably be easier if he didn't, but he does. He _knows,_ and it makes him feel stupid and childish and it's certainly not something Richard's going to give him any sympathy for; he's a grown man and they've bloody been over this already.

He hears the deep breath, feels the shift in weight beside him.

"Would you care to talk – "

"'m jealous," he says into the blanket, "I'm jealous." 

Of Richard's lovers.

Of Richard himself, for having had them at all.

Of all the blokes like them who don't go bloody mad whenever they think about other people getting to be happy when they're _miserable._

"I promise there isn't any reason to be – "

"But I _am_."

"Right," uncomfortable, awkward.

Because it's true, isn't it? He's got no fucking reason. Thomas uncovers his face, stares at the wall. "The last time I loved somebody," he starts, but he finds he can't finish; the words only trail off.

"Yeah?" asks Richard, and then – "er, you haven't got to explain – "

"The last time I loved somebody," with more conviction, "and it was someone who loved me back," he pauses, "somebody I… had a chance with. Was before the war."

"Christ."

He scrambles to defend himself, to justify: "I've had men since," he adds, a little too quickly for his liking, "had some blokes _during_ the war, like you said, it – it was – I got closer to people than I would've if we weren't… but I didn't – it wasn't like that for me, was only weeks at a time if that, not like what…" 

What Richard had.

"What you and I have?" 

And Thomas opens his mouth to correct him, because that wasn't what he meant, but…

"Yeah. I s'pose."

"That doesn't make it any better," says Richard. He's speaking matter-of-factly, and Thomas doesn't know if he'd prefer for him to be more emotional or not. There's a pause, one long enough for Thomas to get a word in but not long enough he can come up with something to say. "Guess I knew it'd been a while, you've said as much, but…"

But Thomas has gone to great lengths to hide just how long _a while_ means, even on the several occasions when it might have been in his favour to go into deeper detail. They spent a fucking hour at Downton just talking about _cruising,_ about going off with strangers because you never knew when you'd get another chance — didn't find out til much later just what trouble Richard had gotten into as a young man, that wasn't until fucking London, would've helped if he'd shared all of that in the first place because it only made him feel better a year after the fact — and so Thomas had told him about some of that but let it sound like he'd known other things, had actual lovers when he hadn't. Not really.

He didn't lie. He just didn't say everything.

"Yeah," Thomas says, slow. He rolls back over; Richard is still seated away from him, fingers jittery upon the blanket. As Thomas is reaching over to lay his hand upon his they settle, but he accepts the touch with a nod, flips his hand over so they're holding each other properly. "Well, that's service, isn't it."

"It doesn't have to be."

"That's how it was."

Unexpectedly, Richard leans over and kisses him — soft, at first, closemouthed and lips barely touching, but then his hand is on Thomas's cheek and his tongue is at his lip… 

The moment Thomas begins to kiss back, Richard pulls away, smiling. Their faces are about an inch away, and Thomas looks into his eyes.

"It doesn't have to be," Richard repeats, "from here on out."

"We've done all right for ourselves up til now, haven't we," says Thomas, breathless. It just came over him, that sense of _how did I come to be yours,_ and he's awestruck.

"Just all right?" 

Heat rises in his cheeks; Richard kisses him on the forehead before letting go of his hand and lying down beside him. He wraps an arm around his waist; they turn to their sides, front to back, because that's what feels natural to do.

"Better," he says.

"Could even say we've done well," Richard says, with a kiss to his shoulder.

Thomas hums, contented.

"You going to tell me about him?" Richard asks.

It takes a moment for Thomas to remember what he must mean by that. 

"It's been a long time," he says slowly. "Seventeen years almost. Since it ended, I mean."

"Seventeen years," Richard repeats. "Different time, back then."

"1912."

"Don't know if I could name the men I was with back then," Richard muses. "Specific to the year, that is..." A moment. "Nor in general."

 _Men, not man,_ Thomas thinks. He obviously didn't tell him about everybody he's ever been with in his life, but knowing he couldn't even if he wanted to… 

Thomas could. He _can._ He can name everybody he's been with longer than a night. 

That's why he's a mess, really.

"Titanic sank," he says evenly. "That's why I remember."

That and the fact that he hasn't bloody had anybody nearly as important since.

Richard doesn't say anything but is probably making a face or something, seeing as that doesn't actually make much sense.

If anything he remembers when the Titanic sank because of what happened, not the other way around.

"Had something to do with it," Thomas says, "in a way," dismissive, so he'll know he doesn't have a dead lover floating somewhere in the North Atlantic. 

"...I don't suppose you'll let me feel sorry for you," says Richard after a moment.

Thomas shakes his head. "I haven't always been as nice as I am," he quips.

As if he's very nice now.

"Doesn't make you any less deserving of love, Mr Barrow."

Another kiss, nearer to his neck, this time.

"Besides," Richard continues, "we've all done things we're not proud of."

He'll have to give him a list of his own, at some point, but that's another one of the things he's been putting off for as long as possible. Again, there's only so much they can send in letters, and they've only had so little time.

He'll exchange it for the list of reasons Richard likes him.

They'll cancel each other out.

"Yeah, well," Thomas says. "At least I have you now."

"That you do."

He does, he does, he does.

For a little while longer they simply lie there in silence, Richard's hand upon the center of his chest, fingers idle at the buttons of his shirt placket. Thinking.

"You'll think I'm making it up," Thomas says eventually.

"Yeah?"

"If I tell you about him."

"I'll be honest, Thomas," Richard says, evidently amused, "I don't see what you could possibly gain from making up a story about a man you were with two decades ago."

Good point.

"Yeah, it's just…" Is there even a good word for it? "…improbable."

"There are more things in heaven and earth," Richard says blithely. 

Thomas tilts his head around to look at him. 

"What?"

He lays his hand over Richard's and threads their fingers together, turns back. "Nothing," he returns. _I just really like you._

And then he says, "I was still a footman."

"Didn't think you'd been a butler your entire life."

"Yeah, well, even if I had – "

"Thomas, love, it was only a joke," and he presses a kiss to the side of Thomas's neck and gives no indication that he is aware he's just made him bloody lightheaded.

He really shouldn't be so affected by these things at his age, but there it is. He's a fucking sop.

"I gather he wasn't?" Richard adds.

"You gather right."

Richard makes a noise that's somewhere between sympathetic and disapproving.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Richard echoes.

He's smiling; Thomas knows it.

"You haven't any right to talk," Thomas tells him, "carrying on with a bloody Earl – "

And hadn't _that_ been a story.

"I don't know what I'd call it _carrying on,_ it was only a few weeks before he – "

"I was young," Thomas interrupts, cutting him off. "And stupid."

He really, really was, looking back. Still a boy when it came to it, with too much he thought he knew and didn't at all. He only ever went for men above his station in those days, and that was about as high above his station as he could possibly get. No wonder it turned out the way it did.

It never would have worked, of course, he knows that now, but it had been the first adult love of his life and he's not exactly gained much experience since.

"Those are synonyms," Richard says, mock-serious, and Thomas laughs.

"Yeah."

Funny how the only bits of it he can remember clearly are the ones he wants most to forget.

"So the lucky man's a peer."

"He's a _duke_."

Richard actually laughs.

"It's _true,_ " Thomas splutters, "I told you you wouldn't believe me – "

"Christ, Thomas," breathless, still sort of laughing, "I believe it, I can assure you — God, if any of us could ever've had a damn duke it'd be you, wouldn't it," and then he's pressing kisses all over the side and back of Thomas's neck, tickling, and it gets him to laugh, too.

He really does make him feel young again.

Takes his breath away and all that.

"You're right," Richard says once he's stopped, almost _cheerful._ "It's improbable, but I reckon so are you in your own way, aren't you — did you love him?"

Thomas nods. "Yeah."

He's not sure what to make of the rest of what he's just said.

"He love you, do you think?"

"Yes," a little sharp. But he's said that already. That's what they're talking about, after all, because Thomas has loved since then, but he has not been loved back.

Not for long enough.

"How'd it end?" Richard asks, and he moves closer to him, maybe like to apologise for having asked.

It's a sore place.

"Badly."

"Are you going to give me more than one word at a time, Mr Barrow?"

"No."

This makes both of them laugh _again,_ and Thomas squeezes Richard's hand.

"A duke," says Richard thoughtfully, when Thomas neglects to go back on his word. "There are twenty-six of those."

Oh, no.

"I'll assume he wasn't one of ours? You'd've said if so – "

"One of _ours_ ," Thomas repeats, incredulous, and Richard laughs but carries on anyhow:

"That makes twenty-three, fewer if you leave out what's left of the old royal houses, and I know for a fact you have good taste in men – "

"Wonder why that is – "

" – so he's likely about our age, yes? Maybe a bit older?" But Richard doesn't wait for an answer. "Right, I've got four possibilities in my head." A beat. "And if he already was one when you met him I think that brings it down to two… was he?"

"Do you have Debrett's memorised?" Thomas asks, incredulous, and then he wrestles out of Richard's arms to face him, instead. 

"Burke's." He's grinning as broad as ever. "Never gotten close enough to one of 'em to take into account _preferences,_ " and God, that's a fucking relief, "but I reckon it was either… Sutherland, Wellington, Crowborough, or Northumberland."

"Bloody hell," because there isn't anything else he can say to that. What the hell is he supposed to say to that.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

Thomas stares at him.

"Was he married?"

All he can manage in reply to that is a scoff of laughter.

"That could be a yes or a no, from where I'm standing," Richard says lightly. He is taking way, way too much joy in this interrogation, but the way he's smiling and pleased with himself Thomas doesn't have it in him to be mad — it gives him the sense that it's going to be okay, actually. Convinces him that sharing this isn't going to come back to bite him. "How you answer both of those questions could narrow it to one."

He gives in.

"You'll find out the answers when I tell you what happened," Thomas tells him, and Richard reaches over and strokes his cheek with the back of his hand, his smile softer now.

"Won't be so fun a story, will it?"

Thomas shakes his head.

Once Richard nods…

"It was Lady Edith's coming out," he starts. "1911. That was how we met, was 'cause of the season," and it's the first time in his life he's ever given anyone the full picture but he does, he tells him all of it.

And by the end of the story he feels… off kilter, somehow. Out of place. Like part of him skipped a step along the way to finishing something important and the rest of him is trying to make up for it, to catch up around him, but he doesn't actually know what step he skipped or what he's meant to be finishing.

He takes a deep breath, gives Richard a look. "You are the only person on Earth who knows about this other than me and him, you know that?"

Richard raises his eyebrows. "Unless he's shared it as well."

"Given what I've just said, do you think that's very likely?" Thomas snaps.

It's taken in stride. "No," nonchalant. "But you've just told me plenty of things that are not very likely."

"Yeah, wish I'd figured that one out for myself – "

"Thomas," Richard interrupts, gentle. "It's easy to believe them when they say things like that. Shouldn't blame yourself."

"I _don't._ "

"That is not the impression I'm getting, Mr Barrow."

Thomas huffs.

It's been over for years. He was wet behind the ears back then; now he isn't, and he doesn't give a damn anymore. Certainly he doesn't blame himself, either, or not as much as he _could,_ at least.

"I figure they mean what they say at the time," adds Richard, when Thomas keeps his mouth shut for still too much longer. "Makes it harder to tell the difference, when a man's lying through his teeth but thinks he's telling the truth."

He probably thinks he's helping, but talk like that only makes Thomas more nervous.

Because that's the point.

He _knows_ they mean what they say at the time. He's done other seasons since Lady Edith's, after all, he's met other men with silver tongues, but he grew up during the war and in the years since and he still doesn't know if he'd be able to tell the difference between someone who's going to leave and someone who isn't. How to tell if someone's making a promise he can't keep.

And what does that say about him, himself? He means what he says now, too, but at this point he's been with Richard longer than he ever has _anyone_. There's nothing he can point to about any of this that'll tell him what it's going to be like.

"How would you know?" he asks, accusing.

Richard's not bothered by his tone — or isn't showing it, if he is.

"Don't suppose you recall I work at Buckingham Palace, Mr Barrow," he says airily. "Gotten to know my fair share… was an easy target for 'em."

"Find that hard to believe," Thomas says dryly. Mr Suave and Savvy.

"I, er," Richard begins, and it's true that in the moment he could be suave-er and savvy-er, "I don't like to admit it, but I was a bit of an ingenue as a lad. Never took me long to…" He pauses. His hand is suddenly too still in Thomas's own, like he's frozen in place, but then it's over after mere seconds and it's the opposite; he won't stop moving his thumb against his skin. "Guess I'm still that way, come to think of it."

And this time it's tough to read between the lines, put the fragments into a whole.

It makes him nervous.

"What way?"

Richard hums, shifts back and forth next to him like he feels it, too. Like he's just felt the same thing that Thomas has and is enjoying it about as much — not hardly.

"What way," Thomas asks again; his heart is suddenly pounding, and this time Richard does not hesitate, but he sounds small all the same. It's not like him. Not how Thomas knows him to be.

"I fall in love very quickly, Mr Barrow," he says softly. 

Like he didn't just spend the last hour telling him all about everybody he's fallen in love with before… "So you've said, Mr Ellis," and the words are more flat than he'd like, but his gut is telling him he doesn't like where this is going and that's a natural consequence of it.

A hum. "Have, haven't I."

It's not a real question, so Thomas doesn't offer up a real answer. (He's not sure what a real answer would even _be,_ though.)

He doesn't offer up anything at all, and Richard continues: "Get to thinking every man's the one. 'S gotten me in trouble."

"Trouble how?"

Nothing to say to that, apparently. Thomas lets go of his hand, stretches his fingers.

_Lying through his teeth, but thinks he's telling the truth._

This is what he's been searching for, isn't it? The logic underneath it all. What it all means. He's just another in a rotation of Richard's mistakes, men who started out perfect, who _felt like he wanted them to,_ before crumbling into dust when the shine wore off and things started to rust around the edges.

Everything makes sense now. 

Last piece of the bloody jigsaw puzzle.

"Well," Thomas says, wry. "That explains everything, doesn't it."

"Yeah," Richard says quietly. Sheepish. Probably isn't an act, or at least, Thomas thinks it isn't, in light of recently acquired information, but who can really say? He's probably just as convincing with every other man he loses his head over — and he's heard about a few of them by now. "I – I know. Christ, I'm lucky you didn't balk in the beginning, going for broke after one night – "

"You do that with every bloke, or just me?"

 _Stupid,_ he tells himself, _you should have known,_ because what else has this entire fucking conversation been coming down to...

"What?"

"In the beginning," says Thomas. He's doing a good job of keeping his voice casual but there's still something poisonous in it. Not like the rest of the time when he doesn't know what caused the bile to rise up — he could trace it all the way back to its source, if he wanted. "D'you do that with everyone?"

Richard is quiet.

"Or just the ones you know you won't see again anytime soon?"

"That isn't what I meant," he murmurs eventually, taking hold of his hand again. Thomas lets it happen, but he doesn't reciprocate. 

"Don't know what I'm supposed to think you meant, all those blokes you said yourself you didn't realise _weren't right for you_ til it was bloody over – "

"Weren't – I wasn't – was never me ended it –"

"But it ended, didn't it!"

 _Keep your voice down_ and God, he's suddenly boiling, furious with himself and he knows why and he can trace it but why's it _affecting_ him like this, he never raises his voice not ever if he can help it but he bloody can't when he keeps fucking _saying_ things like this –

"It's different with you, Thomas."

Things like that! Fucking everybody says that!

"How's that, then?"

Richard is silent.

"Yeah, I'm not so daft to expect you'll still feel that way about me in a fucking month, Richard, of course it's different when we haven't had enough bloody time together for you to figure it out 'cause I live in _fucking Yorkshire_ – "

"Jesus, will you keep your voice down – "

Out of fear more than anything else, heart pounding and ears rushing, Thomas shuts up.

They are still lying down, still _looking_ at one another like this is just a regular conversation they could have had at any time in the last twenty-four hours and not one that makes him want to throw things and kick at walls because of how bloody _stupid_ he is to have come this far without fucking figuring it out — 

"You – Thomas, you – "

And now he's _stammering._

"You want me back, don't you," Richard says, breathy, hoarse. "I want you, and you want me back, and you like me as I am, even with all the, the theatrics, and the foolishness," he laughs, and it is quiet and hoarse and strained like no other sound Thomas has ever heard come from his mouth before and that twists his gut but doesn't do much else except stress his nerves more than they already were. "I'm not imagining things."

"So you like me because I like you, is that it?"

"I've stuck my foot in it," Richard says quickly, "I shouldn't've ever said anything."

Not a _no_.

"Yeah, you shouldn't've," Thomas finds himself replying, "it's hard enough for me with you as it is, you know that, your being so fucking far away and knowing you could get into God knows what if you wanted and I'd never have to know, and I'd bloody deserve it, wouldn't I, everything I've put you through, but I didn't mind thinking you kept me around 'cause you actually bloody _liked_ me – "

"I _do_ like you," he interrupts, frantic; "thought I'd… Christ, Thomas, choose to believe me or don't, but I do like you, and I do want you, and I reckon sometimes I want you more than you want me and you're not doing much right now to – "

"You're just saying that," Thomas says evenly. 

It only quiets him for a half second.

"Made you promises," Richard breathes, soft and encouraging like he gets, but it sounds more like begging than anything else at the moment. "And I've kept them, and I don't promise myself to – I only make promises to a bloke when I love him."

When he thinks he loves him, he means, which judging by the fact that they're even having this conversation is not especially rare.

"How often's that?"

"Thomas, I – please – "

"From where I am it looks like you fall in love with every bloke who shows any interest – "

"But you – "

"You just fucking _told me_ you do, Richard, what the bloody hell am I supposed to think – "

"If you trusted me – "

" _You_ don't even trust you – "

"Trust myself to know that this isn't what I fell in love with."

But is he even properly in love at all?

He ignores the raised eyebrows, the open mouth. "You're just _saying_ that," repeats Thomas, "because you've been left before and you don't want it to happen again even if it means putting up with the wrong bloody person 'cause he's desperate enough to – "

"You think you're the wrong person."

"This hasn't anything to do with what I think – "

"This has all to do with what you think – "

"No, it doesn't!"

_(no matter how torn apart he feels right now he needs to shut the fuck up because they can't cause suspicion; he can't cause suspicion because that would ruin it even more than he already bloody has; it would ruin everything)_

"You'll be leaving like the rest, then."

And though his voice is back to its usual nonchalance, it's suddenly like he's a completely different person. 

Thomas's thoughts come to a halt.

Something about the way he says it reminds him of, of all things, their first morning together. Not before breakfast, after, when the entourage was leaving and he had been tangled up in his own nerves and Richard had seemed like he knew exactly what he was doing, but there was something that changed in his face after they'd kissed. A flicker of something as he reached into his pocket, something that Thomas hadn't recognised at the time but that he had _noticed,_ because he'd been drinking in his face and his voice and memorising it all to the best of his ability, and then played it over and over in his head, and that's how he can even still bloody remember it after so many months have passed. That split-second.

It's like the fidgeting and the hovering and the way how even when he's talking as himself he can still _put things on_ , but sometimes the lilt falters and there's something else to hear (or to not hear).

When he's got something on his mind, yes, but also when he _wants something._

The understanding and the seeing come to him at once, and Thomas can see how Richard was an easy target, why he let himself get done in so many times, why he's breaking down now and why he's so different on paper and why he's found an adage not to live by; fool him once, and all that. He's found himself tied up in some corner of his head that has all the pathetic in it that never comes out otherwise, and if he were to stick around there for long… 

Hard to believe the man in bed with him was trying to convince _him_ he wasn't leaving not even twenty four hours ago, and now he's roped Thomas into doing the same thing.

 _Roped him into it,_ God, what the fuck is wrong with him. Why does he always _do_ this. Another thing that comes to him at once, like a bucket of cold water to the head: "No," he murmurs, and Richard doesn't say anything. Staring up at the ceiling is not making him feel any better, so Thomas closes his eyes.

Why does he have to go and throw a tantrum _every bloody time._

"I'm not," he says, resolved. "We're idiots. We're idiots, Richard."

"Sorry?"

"We're worried about the same bloody thing."

"I don't understand."

"I feel that way about you, you know that?"

Richard sighs, but he says nothing.

"I guess you must, 'cause I keep fucking – crying like a girl over it, but you're… it's daft, Richard, you're daft if you think you want me more than I want you."

Nothing again, and Thomas searches beside him to take Richard's hand again because he'd let go at some point himself; he finds it and squeezes.

"And people do like you," he adds. "If anyone didn't like you I don't know who they _would_ like, certainly wouldn't like me – "

"You go back and forth more than any man I've ever met."

That shuts him up.

"And I wish you weren't so fucking skittish like this, Thomas, because I don't ever know how to handle it without setting you off again."

_Skittish._

"God, what have I said about not being a fucking horse, Richard."

Silence.

He's not even breathing.

Because he's just proved his fucking point.

"I'm sorry," Thomas says, "I – I'm sorry," and all the wireless show commentary on the nature of humanity, that's Richard's job, not his, but maybe it's time for him to rise to the occasion. "I'm sorry for being so fucking sensitive, okay, it's just we're not supposed to want anything," Thomas says. He doesn't really know how he's going to put the emotional journey he's just gone through in the space of a minute into words, but he feels like he's got to. "And that's – that's what it is, can't you see, is you – you _want things,_ Richard, and you actually bloody ask for them but we're not meant to – to… look, _men like us_ are not supposed to leave service and start a family and live in a bloody cottage and go to church on Sundays and we both know it, we're supposed to… do whatever the hell it is you and I are doing right now. Meet in secret and fuck and be bloody thankful that we can even manage that much."

Again, nothing, but Thomas waits.

And he waits.

And Richard sighs. "This is more than that," he says quietly. It's obvious he's been thrown off kilter, and though the little voice in his head is telling him to drop it now because he has done _more_ than enough damage already, Thomas shakes his head.

"It isn't," he goes on, "it can't be, it's just getting by is all it is and we're never gonna have more, cause we're not supposed to fall in love," and he realises that he missed that, earlier, that he wasn't listening when Richard said he _falls in love_ and he's not going to pretend he doesn't know what he meant by that and it's _fucking terrifying,_ being in love with a man and him being in love back, it is all he has ever wanted and it's been so long since he was anywhere near it, more than _a decade,_ more than a decade of wanting nothing else but this and yet he's afraid out of his goddamn mind, and it doesn't make sense — he was so _happy_ when he said he loved him and he's been happy every time since the first (how was it only a day ago? ) but somehow this is different, it's more, it's too much — 

"We're not supposed to – it's not real, Richard, not to anybody but us. Because we're not meant to be bloody capable of it." These are not words that are going to make Richard any less upset, and he knows that.... but if they don't have it in their heads now then they're only going to be disappointed later, and _that_ is what this is about. It is about how they are not allowed things like everybody else is and how that's what's ruined everything they've ever had before each other, and if they're not careful then it will ruin them, too. Even if he doesn't take what he's saying to heart, the rest of the world believes in it utterly and completely, and to say the least that makes things difficult — everyone around them thinking they haven't got hearts and that they soil everything they touch, how are they supposed to fucking be in love when that's the world they live in? How can Richard see potential in any of that? People are fucking terrible. That's all they've known in their lives so far and he knows it's all they ever _will_ know, even if the man next to him wants desperately to believe otherwise. "We are not supposed to fall in love, you and I," he says definitively.

"But it is." Well, evidently he guessed correctly on this making him upset. "And we do."

"If we're stupid enough."

"Right," says Richard after a moment. Back to normal just like that. "There's me getting ahead of myself again."

_Richard Ellis is in love with me._

"Look, I don't believe all that," Thomas mutters. "I don't. But it's true we're not meant to have those things and you know it as well as I do."

"Thomas," a miniscule pause, "I don't think you really believe that part, either."

"Didn't used to."

"But do you, now?"

"Well, it's a fact, isn't it," he says. "Can't deny everyone thinks so – "

"But in the grand scheme of things?"

The grand scheme of things. Like there is one.

"If you're talking about, what, religion…"

This is yet another thing he doesn't want to talk about, now or ever.

"Huh," Richard says mildly. "I should've known you wouldn't care for it," soft and considering like _might have been better for me to come at this from a different angle_ instead of _fuck you for feeling differently about this than I do,_ which is generally what Thomas means when he says things like that.

It's definitely what he'd mean if he'd just been verbally smacked in the face over and over.

"Makes no difference, though," Richard adds. "Law's bigger than you and I are, no denying that, but that's just people in the end, and people change."

"Do we?"

"Over time."

Thomas rolls over in bed to stare at the ceiling again.

"I don't want to wait."

Richard grabs his hand and squeezes it. "Neither do I."

But they have to.

He squeezes back, then unthreads their fingers, stretches out his hand.

"Thomas?" Richard says after a moment, and then he's up against his side with his head on his chest, and Thomas wraps his arm around him and thinks _sorry_ loud enough it feels as though Richard should be hearing it. He doesn't know how they even got here — they were about to start screaming a minute ago, weren't they? "This summer, and I remember this clear as day, you told me that people think plenty of things are odd that aren't."

"I said that?"

"You said that," says Richard, gently affirming. "Reckon you wouldn't have if you really and truly thought you weren't ever supposed to be happy."

"We're not talking about happiness," Thomas says carefully. It sounds too cold; he rubs his hand up and down along Richard's waist, _sorry._

Richard hums. "But aren't we?"

"Look," says Thomas, trying to steer them gently back to where they came from, to get the train back on the rails, "all I know is I don't ever want to see the inside of a jail cell again."

"I don't blame you," Richard murmurs.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," but now that he's said it out loud he doesn't know how to _stop._

"I don't – I don't know how to do this," he confesses.

"Thomas…"

"I forgot how, okay, and that you can just… just tell me you fall in love just like that when I haven't for _years,_ and – "

"Hey," Richard says, and he reaches up to hold Thomas's shoulder, to press around his upper arm with the palm of his hand, and it's more soothing than he'd have thought it could have been but it still isn't enough. Thomas holds him more tightly, and Richard brings his leg over his own, more pressure, more touch, more together (because he understands exactly what he wants and what he needs and _God why the fuck did he say all those things to the only man who's ever fucking known him or understood him at all_ ) "Doesn't mean I love you any less than you love me, Thomas, just means I – maybe I knew it sooner is all."

Thomas tries to take a deep breath. "But you _didn't,_ " he says, shaky. "No, I – fuck – "

He swallows, wills himself not to cry, because this was supposed to be about Richard and Richard does not like when he cries, and neither does he, for that matter. 

"I don't know how to have someone," he breathes. "And have him stay around without – without _making_ him, only it never – it never works when I try, and I _know_ that, I do, but you…"

So much for being back on the rails.

Can't even fix things for his sake. 

"You make it too bloody easy," Thomas says, voiceless. "You're so fucking easy to love, but I don't – I don't know how to _do that._ "

"How to..."

"How to fucking _love,_ Richard, when it's not – I mean, what am I supposed to _do_? When you already… "

"Jesus, Thomas, please don't cry – "

And Richard is off him, now, propped up on his arm and looking down at him with a crease in his brow and concern in his eyes.

"Don't cry," he repeats.

"I'm not," Thomas says, through gritted teeth.

"Don't cry," and then he kisses his forehead and Thomas forces himself to breathe. Inhale, exhale. His hands are stiffening up again.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do," he whispers. "When I don't… if I don't have to try, if you just bloody let it happen and stay around without me having to bloody beg you on my hands and knees or – or doing something _bad_ , and I haven't got to – to… what do I do _instead_ – "

Richard lifts his chin at him, considering, but he says nothing.

"Forget it," Thomas mumbles, "forget it, it's stupid," _and you thought he was pathetic stop being bloody stupid,_ "shouldn't've thought you'd want to – "

Richard cups his cheek in his hand, shakes his head, and he stutters to silence.

"Thomas," he says softly. He's smiling for some reason. "Thomas, it's supposed to be that way."

"But what do we _do._ "

"Have we been doing nothing for the last eighteen months, then, Mr Barrow?"

No, they haven't, and that's not entirely what he _means,_ but what they have been doing's not his idea of happy ever after. Just writing. Writing, and meeting once, for just two days, two days and two nights and one of them wasted because Thomas has made so many mistakes and they always come back to him when he least needs them to.

"No," he says shortly.

"That's right."

Thomas rolls over, away from him. He needs to cut that out before it becomes a habit but he can't repress the urge to get away. "You and I both know we can't do this forever."

"Don't," Richard says, "Thomas, please, don't, I can't bear it."

He shuts his mouth at that.

Beside him Richard is tense, his breathing is too quick; out of the corner of his eye he sees the flutter of his hands on the blanket… but then it's over. Back to normal. Buttoned up and straightlaced.

"We'll do it as long as we can," he says. "We'll give it an honest go."

"Sorry," Thomas mutters.

"I know you are," patient.

"Do a shit job showing it, though, don't I," he replies, and even though he's got nothing to look at he squeezes his eyes shut. "God, what the fuck just happened."

"An argument," Richard says, almost amused.

Almost.

"I – I made it all about me."

Richard doesn't waver. "Yeah, you did."

He wants there to be a _but_. He suspects there won't be — and there shouldn't be. Him wanting it is no reason for it to exist, not when he doesn't deserve it to… He opens his eyes and turns back over. He's just going to keep doing this all night apparently, _going back and forth_ in every way he can.

Tentative, Thomas reaches out toward him, lays his hand on his cheek. He asks a stupid question because he's afraid to ask the smart one. "Are you sad?"

"Sad," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah."

"Now?"

He deserves that look, like he's an idiot for bothering to ask. He would have very many reasons to be.

"Yeah," Thomas answers. "Now, and… generally."

"Don't think of myself that way," Richard says slowly. 

Thomas pushes. "But are you? Often?"

"Glum sometimes, get to feeling blue," noncommittal. "But that's common, isn't it?"

 _Don't push,_ he tells himself, wills himself, after the mess he just got them into...

"Can be," he says, careful. He has to wonder how often exactly is _sometimes_. "And we have more reasons than everybody else."

"Yeah." A pause. "Yeah, that's all it is."

That's an answer in and of itself, isn't it? That he has an idea of what Thomas is even worried about to begin with. Maybe he doesn't know how deep it goes in him. Hasn't acknowledged it. Or maybe he does know and he's hiding it from him.

"Probably didn't help, did I."

"Can't say quite yet."

Thomas scoffs. "Surely you can."

Richard closes his eyes.

For a little while they are silent, just Thomas stroking his cheek and listening to him breathe, minding he isn't falling asleep because he knows this can't go unresolved but he doesn't want to disturb him. He's done that enough already. In two bloody days.

...but then it gets to be too much, and —

"God, I'm so fucking sorry," Thomas says, hoarse, "I don't – I don't know why I – " He swallows. No lies. "I wish I hadn't said any of it."

"Can't take it back," Richard murmurs, eyes still closed, and he's right. Thomas's gut twists and his stomach hurts and he wishes he were dead in that way that happens sometimes when the shame gets to be too much, but _this needs to be about Richard_. "Gonna – I won't lie, Thomas, I'll remember what you said."

And it's going to haunt him, he knows that much.

"I don't believe it," Thomas whispers, "I don't believe any of it; I just – I said things."

"I know."

"But do you?"

The way he tenses in bed behind him is answer enough, but he does speak after a moment. "There'll be times ahead I don't, yeah."

"When you're feeling blue. Like you said."

"Yeah."

Thomas closes his eyes, too. He has a lump in his throat. "You – you were right. I want you back." He forces himself to keep breathing, clenches his fist and then swipes at the quilt with his hand. The threads catch on the gnarled skin of his palm. It is a deserved reminder of the worst part of him. "And I love you. More than I've ever loved anybody. But I don't treat people well."

"You were hurt," murmurs Richard.

"No, you listen to me, it doesn't bloody matter if I was, okay, I never wanted to… look, I don't want to make this about me again, you don't deserve that. But I… I kicked you when you were down." He takes a deep breath. "'Cause I get scared and I – I do that. I hurt people. Always do."

"Don't know that I can blame you for lashing out when I misspoke as I did – "

"Richard, I did it on purpose." And he didn't. "I wanted to hurt you."

And now he feels like he could vomit and he wishes he never had. But that's what happened. That's what happened even though Richard told him _everything_ and told him how he'd been hurt and said it didn't happen with him, and he had to go and fucking prove him wrong.

"Well," Richard says, wry. "You did." When Thomas strokes his thumb again at his cheek he pauses, almost sighs, before continuing: "I'd like to tell you it's easy to say things we don't mean, but I don't think it is for you, is it."

Thomas shakes his head, keeps his eyes closed. 

"Mean things when I'm saying them," he murmurs.

"That's when it counts, Thomas."

"Yeah." He knows him better than he knows himself sometimes. "But you believe me, right, that I don't… don't _think_ those things."

"I think we know enough about each other by now to hit where we're already sore."

That is not a straight answer.

"Got the opposite problem, myself," Richard continues. "I don't mean anything I say with most people."

"Most people."

"Mean it with you." A breath. "Or I – I try to, but…"

"It's hard."

"Yeah." A breath. "Yeah, it's really fucking hard, Thomas. My life is a goddamn lie."

Thomas opens his eyes. 

Richard is staring back at him looking utterly and completely lost. "Don't know what's true and what isn't."

Thomas swallows.

"I am," he says, "I want to be," and he moves his hand lower, presses his thumb to Richard's temple and tilts his head forward, turns just enough. _It is your choice,_ he thinks, telling him silently and hoping he'll understand, _this one's up to you,_ and he is just far away enough that he can see Richard's lips part…

A nod.

Thomas kisses him, fingers spread against his neck in a touch as light as he can make it, because with his mouth he is less gentle — not _rough,_ just less gentle; he is insistent like _please believe me_ and when Richard sighs and breathes into his mouth as he runs his tongue beneath his lip he thinks maybe the message is getting across… it lasts for ages, he takes Richard's upper lip between his own and Richard flicks his tongue at his bottom one and their mouths move together; they are both giving. And they are both receiving.

He has more to be sorry for than Richard does, but they do both have reasons, don't they?

As they draw apart Richard goes to grab Thomas's hand at his neck; he squeezes his fingers.

"I want to be good for you," Thomas breathes, "I want to deserve you."

"You are good for me."

"But I hurt you."

On _purpose._

"And if you make a habit of it I'll reconsider."

Thomas nods.

"Yeah," he says, firm as he can be, "yeah, you – you should."

"But I think we've been in close quarters," Richard continues, "and that can make a man het up. Or nervous."

"You got nervous."

"So'd you, love."

Yeah, he got really fucking nervous, and then he got _het up_ and turned a molehill into a mountain. (That's something Richard would say, isn't it?)

Thomas realises he's been biting his lip in between words just when Richard kisses him at the corner of his mouth — a quick little thing but enough to surprise him, and then he doesn't pull back all the way. He rubs their noses together; Thomas smiles despite himself, and that makes Richard smile, too, looks like.

"I like that you do that," Thomas tells him, earnest. He'd better be earnest, after all this. "I – I like all the things you do like that," the little sweet things he'd be too embarrassed to ask for or even come up with himself.

"Yeah?"

He nods.

Richard _is_ smiling now, truly. 

Thomas strokes his thumb at his jaw. "Make you tell me you like me all the time but I never do it for you, do I. Outside of the letters, I mean."

"I reckon I have less trouble remembering," murmurs Richard.

"Not _now,_ " Thomas counters. "Not now after I've – " 

He can't finish the sentence, though, so he shrugs, and Richard raises his eyebrows, and all he can properly think to do is kiss him again… so he does, taking his upper lip between his and sucking, and the way Richard gasps into his mouth sends a shiver through him. A nice one.

"I'm gonna tell you," he says as he's pulling away. "What I like."

Richard raises his eyebrows; his lips straighten out.

"Yeah?"

"I like…" He pauses. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he's nervous all of a sudden, more than he has any right to be: "'s tough for me to talk about, I think. To say out loud."

"Yeah, all of this is."

That's true.

"Can write things down, but…"

"But not say them."

"Yeah. I guess."

Richard nods.

"You don't have to – "

"I like that," Thomas interrupts, firm. "I like that you keep trying to – to make me feel comfortable even when I don't deserve it."

It's easier to say all of the things the same way, _I like…_ Childish, probably. Stupid that he needs to. He's put some very embarrassing words into letters to Richard, and he should know by now that pen-and-paper is more incriminating than things he says out loud, but actually saying things to Richard's face still feels more dangerous than that. 

The words make him smile, though, so it's worth it.

"You do deserve it," he says, and Thomas shakes his head. "You do – "

Thomas puts his hand over Richard's mouth just long enough to make him shut up, then drags his hand down along from his face to his neck to the top of his chest. "I'm the one who's supposed to be saying nice things," he tells him sternly. "You listen."

Richard nods, and he's not just smiling now; he's beaming again. Lights up his whole face. It isn't something that should go unmentioned in the circumstances. "I like your smile," he says, "you have the most handsome smile of anybody I've ever met."

"Is that so."

"And the most handsome face."

"Yeah?"

"And the most handsome hair – "

"But you hate how I style it."

Thomas hums. "Not so much anymore."

Richard raises his eyebrows. "Why's that, Mr Barrow?"

"Can't fix it if you don't do anything to it to begin with, can I?"

"Fix it, or ruin it?"

"Fix it," Thomas insists. "It got wavy when it was wet," he adds, and Richard laughs.

"I am more than my hair," he says.

"Much more," Thomas concurs, and he picks at the buttons of Richard's shirt, tries to tickle his chest but only gets a half-smile out of him.

"Doesn't work on me."

"We shall see about that." And he smiles wider, then, so Thomas says, "I like _this._ " He finally finds a place to relax: he lies down properly beside him, lays his head upon his chest, and Richard wraps his arm around him and starts playing with his sleeve. Thomas doesn't tell him off. He doesn't have the heart, for one thing, and for another it sort of feels nice. "I like not having to do anything except be with you."

"Thought that scared the hell out of you."

"Yeah, well, maybe I like it anyway."

"I like it, too."

"Good."

It _is_ nice, though, just lying there. It's not the first time he's had the thought, he remembers thinking it the day before, and he thought it in London, too, and he thought something along the same lines when they were sitting in the garage at Downton a year and a half ago just talking. Just _existing,_ and getting to do it next to somebody who understood, who just wanted to exist, too. 

To do so without having to think about it, without having to force his way into a place he doesn't actually fit.

"I wouldn't say you're a fearful person," Richard starts, "but I do worry about scaring you off me."

And after all this Thomas knows that that is about Richard more than about him. He says, "you won't."

"Can't know that, Thomas, neither of us can." He pauses. "But I haven't yet, and that's how this works, isn't it? Taking things a day at a time, and all? ...but that's easier said than done."

"So's everything else," Thomas tells him drily. He sighs. "I don't know why I keep snapping at you," he admits, "when you've – like you said before, you've sort of been more committed than I have from the beginning. If anybody's uncertain it should be you, not me."

"I'm too certain, Mr Barrow," says Richard mildly. "Even when it's not in my best interests to be. Always gotten ahead of myself; I've told you enough by now surely you can see that."

He can.

"And I'm a bit too fond of romantic gestures for my own good."

Thomas manages a smile. "Started this all off with one, didn't you?"

Richard fidgets underneath him but says nothing.

"I guess you were… worried about that, too, then," Thomas tries, tentative, and though it takes a little more time… 

"Yeah," Richard says, "yeah, I won't deny that."

"Yeah, well, don't be," murmurs Thomas. "It's the most thoughtful thing anyone's ever done for me."

They fall silent.

Thomas squeezes his hand. 

After too long with nothing more, too long of just lying there in his arms and letting things hang in the air unsaid…

"I sleep with it under my pillow," he blurts out. "Like – like a bloody schoolgirl."

"You do?"

"Yeah," Thomas says, "yeah, I – after – after me and… after what I did, you know, with Chris, I didn't want anything to happen to it, and I didn't – didn't need it to have you on my mind, 'cause I did anyway. Cause I _do_ anyway. So it's… I sleep with it. So I can have you with me."

He takes a deep breath before adding, "in bed with me."

Richard doesn't say anything at first.

"I know that's silly – "

"That's the point," until he does. "'s why I gave it to you." 

Thomas waits, because he senses that the thought is unfinished and he needs to give Richard _chances._ Chances to say what he thinks and feels, to be honest. The man pretends too much for his own good and Thomas almost bloody ruined everything by pushing him back into his shell — may as well have told him he didn't believe what _was_ true, and how in the bloody hell was that going to help anything?

So, he owes him that, at least.

He isn't disappointed, either.

"Only get so many chances to be romantic," Richard murmurs. They're on the same page, really, when it comes down to it. "I take them where I can."

"But you don't let me take them."

"You're here, aren't you?"

And Thomas can't argue with that one.

"You planned all this," adds Richard. "You figured it out, made the arrangements, did it all but telephoning." Because that's Richard's area of expertise, as he has learned very well by now. "If that's not romantic I don't know what is."

"Giving people gifts and reading them poetry, probably," Thomas says dryly, and Richard laughs.

"Then that settles things, doesn't it," he says. "You and I do it differently, but we still do it."

A fact for which he is very glad, although he still sort of feels uneven in all of this.

But maybe that's just him.

"Haven't had anything like that in a while," Thomas tells him after a moment. "You reading me the poem."

He hasn't had anything like any of this in a while, but that, especially.

"Last time I had anything close," he begins, and he closes his mouth to think about how to _put_ this, only to find he can't open it again.

This is not good, some part of him registers, he is going into a dark place again, but… 

"You don't have to talk about it, Thomas," Richard says softly. He's realised it, too.

"Haven't told you as much as you've told me," he counters. There's less to tell, but still.

"Not everything's about keeping score, love."

Suddenly very, very overwhelmed, Thomas turns his face into Richard's shirt and tries to just breathe, and it isn't long before Richard's giving him that soothing friction again, releasing his hand and then moving his palm in patterns along his back, arm, and shoulder. 

The feeling passes eventually, but it takes effort to make it happen, and he feels bloody exhausted even though it can't have been more than a minute.

But remembering does that, he supposes.

"What's this about?" Richard asks, so gentle it almost makes him feel guilty.

"I think if I don't tell you now I never will," Thomas whispers.

Making a thing of it is only going to make it harder, though. He knows that.

Funny how he never actually got over all the things he thought he did, and now Richard has to deal with them in the span of a few hours because he can't bloody handle his own emotions.

Richard says nothing; Thomas goes for some more deep breaths. They do help — he always thinks they're useless until he's in a place where they're his only option left, and then he remembers they're not.

"It was me," he says quietly, but once the words are out he realises his mouth is ahead of his mind. "Er, I read it to him. Wasn't – it wasn't love poetry, it was – "

This shouldn't make him _feel like this,_ but it does; it's frustrating and it makes him feel small on top of everything else. He huffs, exasperated, and Richard traces a shape into his arm. A rectangle, then another. Probably doesn't even realise he's doing it.

"What was it?" he asks. Not too emotional, not too serious, and it turns out that must be what Thomas needs because a bit of the weight inside of him goes away in hearing it.

"Shakespeare," Thomas answers. "Troilus and Cressida."

"Never liked that one."

"Yeah, me, neither." He pauses. "And I sort of hate it now."

"I take it this isn't a happy story either."

"Richard, none of my stories about men are ever gonna be happy," he says slowly. "This one especially."

"Thomas, if you don't want to share it – "

"He's dead," he interrupts. "He killed himself."

"Jesus Christ," murmurs Richard. He's not nonchalant anymore.

"Yeah. I read it to him 'cause he was blind. That's all. Dunno why I still remember it."

Richard shifts Thomas off of him and sits up, takes his hands in his own and squeezes them so tightly his fingertips go white. "How could you possibly not?" he asks, so severely it frightens him.

When Thomas finally finds the words to answer the question his voice is reedy, the way it gets when he's offended, only he's _not_ offended, but he knows an accusation when he hears one all the same: "we weren't even — I didn't even know he felt the same 'til a few hours before he died, so – "

"Haven't a clue why in God's name you think you ought to have forgotten it, Thomas, because for me that'd make it worse." He lets go of his hands and meets his eyes; Thomas's heart thuds and a knot shows up in his stomach. "Who else knows?"

"What?"

"Does anybody else know about him?"

Thomas swallows. It takes strength not to look away and several tries to find his voice. "Somebody _did_ ," he says slowly, "but she's dead, too, and I haven't got a queue of people around the block waiting to hear all my bloody problems…" The way Richard looks at him then makes him feel even worse; he trails off. Grits his teeth. "Don't _pity_ me."

"I don't."

This time Thomas actually believes him, and he's so surprised at himself for it he forgets what he wanted to say next.

They've kept eye contact all the while, and though Thomas breaks it, uncomfortable, he goes to take Richard's hands again at the same time.

"Keeps happening," Thomas mumbles, and Richard gives his hands another squeeze. "I keep – don't you want me to let you talk about yourself – "

"You _did,_ " Richard says, "you _have._ " He tugs him over, and before Thomas knows it he's got his head tucked against his neck and shoulder and Richard's petting his back again. "You need more people to share these things with," he says quietly, and Thomas sighs against him and doesn't know what to _say._

He's always needed that, but he's never had it, has he, so how's he meant to find it? Who's going to listen? Baxter? Mrs Hughes? What would they want to do with it?

"You can't just keep things inside of you 'til they get too much to bear," Richard continues. 

"Yeah, well, I do."

"Won't last, Thomas."

And this is one of those times where Richard's telling him things he already knows, giving him advice he doesn't need, but somehow it's different now than it has been before. Doesn't make him want to curl up and hide forever… or maybe it does, but just not so strongly as usual. 

"Lasted years already."

"Has it, though?"

Thomas curls toward him, kisses his neck and closes his eyes.

"No," he says, and Richard squeezes his shoulder. "I – I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"All right."

"I – "

"It's all right."

"Thank you," Thomas breathes, and for all the times he's cried in the past day-or-so he's come close to it and stopped himself many more, and that's probably something to be proud of, is him retaining any of his ability to keep a hold of himself. "I… you say something," he says, insistent, "talk to me about something else," and he manages to pull himself away and rub at his eyes with the back of his hand, and Richard lets him settle back on his chest how they'd started, supporting.

"What shall I say?"

"Anything. I don't know."

And he doesn't say anything just then, or for what feels like ages, which is unlike him enough that Thomas starts to get concerned… but just when he's about to say something, the silence is over.

"This likely isn't quite what you meant," Richard starts, "but earlier, you said…" He clears his throat. "You called me easy to love."

He releases his hand, draws up his arm and stops at his face, strokes Thomas's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"Nobody's ever said anything like that about me before."

 _They're all fucking idiots, then,_ is Thomas's first thought.

"Yeah, well," Thomas says, trying to be firm and sounding choked up instead, knowing now is probably not the time to insult every man Richard's ever been with in his life, "just 'cause you don't like who you are doesn't mean I can't like you either."

"Oh, Thomas..." 

Thomas feels a kiss pressed to the top of his head and has to squeeze his eyes shut. "I love you," he murmurs. "You put up with a lot from me. You're patient."

"Most of the time."

Thomas knows that tone of voice by now.

"Care to elaborate, Mr Ellis?"

"No," Richard says cheerily, and he kisses him again and _almost_ laughs.

"I do mean it," Thomas tells him after it's faded. Nothing like innuendo to get him smiling, apparently. Something in the mood's changed for the better. "I'm not – I know I'm no good at this, and I keep – anybody else would've tossed me aside by now, but you – "

"People aren't things that can be tossed aside, Thomas," he murmurs. "You just haven't been with anybody else who thinks so."

"No, I have been." 

He's just also been terrible enough to make them change their minds. 

He pauses for a second, chews at his lip. Richard unbuttons his cuff and starts rolling up his sleeve one-handed, which distracts him. "Don't suppose you ever heard that proverb about the devil and idle hands," he says, and Richard _actually_ laughs, then.

"What about it?"

"Was made for you."

"And?"

"And I never noticed 'til yesterday," Thomas tells him. 

"Like that, too, then?"

Fishing for compliments… he shouldn't have stopped.

"I do," he replies. "And I like that you're patient. And that you give me chances, even when I…" He trails off before picking back up, and Richard starts stroking the inside of his elbow, nearly tickling. A deep breath saves him. "Look, say what you like about – about how I've been treated, but I wouldn't've stuck around after somebody went off with another bloke, and I know that about me, so the fact that… that _you_ did…"

"It's a special sort of pathetic," Richard says mildly, and Thomas shakes his head, pulls himself up.

"No," he says. "No, it isn't."

"Isn't it?"

"Not to me."

He pecks him on the lips before settling again, and Richard lets his shirt alone and intertwines their fingers.

"Figured it was my fault," he says. "Didn't wanna scare you off first thing, like I said, and besides," he sort of shrugs, "men like us aren't known for commitment, are we? Ought've been more forward about what I – "

"Okay," says Thomas firmly, "I won't lie, I also like that you try not to blame me for anything except when I really muck it up, even though you and I both know that's not exactly a good thing, but I _don't_ like when you blame yourself for shit that isn't your fault, so if you would kindly shut the fu – "

"You are so _sweet,_ " Richard interjects, laughing, for some reason.

"I am beginning to think you don't know what that word means, Mr Ellis," and Richard ruffles his hair.

"Tell me what else you like about me," he says, and Thomas laughs.

"We're gonna be here all night."

"That was already the plan, wasn't it?"

Very funny.

Thomas moves so that he can look up at him properly, and as he does so Richard keeps his hand at his head, rubs his scalp with his knuckles in a way that makes him feel like he could fall asleep then and there.

"Don't know how you do that," Thomas mumbles.

"Do what?"

"I don't know."

Richard raises his eyebrows.

"You make me go soft."

"I don't make you do anything, Thomas."

"Yeah, you do."

"No, I think you've been like this underneath all along," he splays his hand upon the back of his head and presses; Thomas leans into the touch, "and nobody ever bothered to do the work to look for it..."

Thomas stares at him.

"...makes sense you didn't know it was there, doesn't it?"

"You've actually thought about this, haven't you?"

"I have," Richard says, smiling. "I'm a thoughtful bloke."

"Yeah, well, you may be joking," Thomas starts, and he lifts his head up and fixes him with a look he hopes gets across how serious he is, "but one of the first things I noticed about you was how bloody considerate you are."

"Yeah?"

He probably hadn't expected him to say something like that.

"Yeah, you had everybody wrapped around your finger when you were here — er, at Downton, but you did 'cause you were nice, not 'cause you were a manipulative bastard like I am – "

"You're hardly – "

"Oh, I am," Thomas tells him, stern in a way that comes off as more of a joke than it really should, "but you're… you won everybody over and I couldn't even hate you for it, 'cause you won me over, too."

"And there you were, making fun of me from the first day on."

"Easy to make fun of," Thomas counters. "You thought I was funny. I know you did."

"I thought you were hilarious, actually, yeah."

"I don't think that means quite the same thing…"

Richard kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no idea when the next chapter will be up because they keep dividing and multiplying like amoeba and currently the next chapter is.... all of the sex scenes that were taken out of this chapter, which is not very coherent OR cohesive. so. hopefully this tides everybody over until Whenever That Happens. i also am hoping to get other WIPs updated during the coronavirus event but considering i am ill possibly with the coronavirus that may not... actually happen. we'll see.
> 
> thank you all so much for following along!


	9. manners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fucking finally
> 
> sorry 4 the wait
> 
> some body image but otherwise this is just porn and we are leaning into unrealistic enough to be hot here a little more than we have been
> 
> also there are chapter titles now!

"Are we ever going to go down to tea?" Richard says mildly. 

Thomas shrugs, says nothing. He doesn't remember when they stopped talking, but he was enjoying the whole snuggling up in silence thing very much and is not exactly fond to now have to answer questions, necessary ones though they may be.

"You hungry?" prompts Richard again, and Thomas manages to lift his head _just_ enough to look at him before flopping back down again.

"Probably should be," he replies. And it's true, and if he's entirely honest he sort of is, but he'd rather stay here than go have a meal, he knows that much.

"Ought to decide before it's too late."

"Are _you_ hungry?"

"I could eat."

"How late's it go, again?"

"I wrote it down," says Richard. 

Meaning he has no idea.

"Can look," Thomas says, and he starts to pull away —

"No, I've got it."

Because, it turns out, he'd written it in his diary, and God forbid Thomas go anywhere near that….

But they do indeed go down.

"Probably good for us to get out of this room once in a while," Richard says as they let themselves back in, and with those vowels he may as well be shouting _I grew up in York, Yorkshire and am still bloody obsessed with the place_ from the rooftops; Thomas shushes him and gives him a shove, takes the key from his hand and locks the door behind them before pressing it back into his palm.

" – was there anyone to – "

"No," Thomas says firmly. 

But it's shaken Richard anyway, and they spend the better part of the next hour apart and in silence: Thomas on the bed nearest to the door, smoking; Richard at the chair by the window, watching. After a little while Thomas picks up his own book and starts reading.

It helps. 

It's nice, too, to be in the same space, even if they're not talking or even doing the same thing. They can never do that any place else, after all.

Time passes more quickly than it has been (not a good omen of things to come, Thomas thinks), and he doesn't realise it's late enough to sleep until Richard sneaks up behind him and lays both his hands upon his shoulders.

Thomas looks up at him.

"Better?" he asks.

Richard nods before leaning down and kissing him on the forehead. "Yeah."

The kiss makes him smile. "There's the problem with pretending all the time," he says, and Richard nods again. 

"Don't say you told me so."

"I wasn't going to, actually," Thomas replies. As if he worries about _Thomas_ lecturing _him._ "Are you ready for bed, d'you think?"

"There's something I'd like to do first," he says mildly, letting his hands wander down to the front of his neck, dragging his thumb at the crease of his collar in a way that makes him shiver. In a way that makes guessing what, exactly, _something_ is to be fairly simple. "But yeah, I am."

It never does take Richard very much time to get himself upright again after he falls. 

Not that he's complaining, necessarily, but it can get to be uncanny.

"All right, then," says Thomas, and he shrugs off his touch, rolls over and drops his book unceremoniously on the floor at the foot of the bed before sitting up again. Richard laughs.

When he leans over the bed, reaching toward him, Thomas leans back.

"Aren't you going to ask what?"

"No," he says, _falling_ onto his back, "I shouldn't think so."

He took his own breath away with the gymnastics, and while he lies there trying to get it back Richard simply stands there and looks at him, his eyes wandering as though he hasn't got clothes on.

Very helpful.

Thomas swallows. 

If that look on his face is any indication, he knows exactly what he's doing and how it's affecting him. 

"Only this morning I made a suggestion," he says, a gleam in his eye and grinning, "and I thought now might be the proper time to bring it up again." 

Though it takes him a moment to go back over the whole day in his head — and God it has been an eventful one, for them spending most all of it in the same room — he realises quickly that Richard has not made so many suggestions since morning that figuring out which one he means now is especially difficult.

Four times already today, but he's not about to complain about a fifth, especially if it's _that._ Especially if it's something he's been thinking about on an almost nightly basis since the summer before last.

The likelihood of him needing to get himself off in the next month after this holiday of theirs is getting to be exceedingly slim, and frankly at this point he's already worried about _tomorrow,_ because the last time his endurance was tested like this he was a much younger man… but no, he's not about to complain.

Richard's hand is on his knee now.

Richard's hand is _pushing on his knee_ now, parting his legs… 

"What suggestion was that, Mr Ellis?"

Even if he already knows.

Thomas reaches out; Richard takes his hand and tugs him forward to sitting.

"Do you mean to tell me it made no impression, then, Mr Barrow…"

"I might," Thomas says, slow and drawn out.

It's the look on his face more than anything else that ruins any resolve Thomas still has of playing hard-to-get, although the low-and-sultry voice (vowels broad and the words just running into each other, musical) certainly doesn't hurt. 

That bloody smile is doing things to him, too, though; he's not going to be able to keep up the innocent act for very long.

"What a shame," Richard says wryly. He touches the inside of his thigh, and though Thomas tenses (and Richard lays his hand flat, then, feeling him up, feeling the muscles in his leg as they contract and _it's a very good thing he goes up the stairs hundreds of times in a day and still has that going for him_ ) he does nothing more than blink up at him.

 _Go on,_ Thomas thinks, _seduce me then_.

"You're the one who was gonna bring it up, aren't you?" asks Thomas. "Maybe I could do with a reminder."

"Could you?" His fingers are wandering; a small gasp escapes him despite his best efforts.

"I could," he says, matter-of-fact. 

Richard finally takes his hand away from right-next-to-his-prick and puts his finger to Thomas's lips.

He's only doing it to be a bother.

(And it _is_ a bother, just one more thing to get him hot under the collar. But he'll not let that show if he can help it.)

"Don't you shush me," Thomas says, poking his tongue out. Richard laughs, pulls his hand away like he'd touched a flame. Serves him right. "You're the noisy one."

"Far as we know."

"How do you propose we learn more?"

He's cut off as Richard gives him a push, and then he's pinned him to the mattress by his shoulders with his _fucking knee between his legs –_

"Oh, God," Thomas says, and for all his trouble earlier he's having no problems at all with responding now; after the coaxing already there's that pull in his belly and rush in his head. He closes his eyes. "Oh God."

Richard leans forward, or something, putting more of his weight into his hands such that even if he wanted to, he couldn't move. But that won't be a problem, because he doesn't _want_ to move. Not even close. He wants to stay right here, held and held in place, and he wants Richard to just go ahead and have his way with him _bloody hell where are these thoughts coming from —_

"I don't think I'd realised til now just how much you like that," Richard muses.

"Blimey," he breathes.

He doesn't think he had, himself.

"Silly boy," and _God_ does that make Thomas want to roll over and pull the quilt over his face but he _can't,_ and Richard's still talking, voice casual but like velvet nonetheless. "Could get you to come off right here," he says. "Wouldn't take much, would it, Thomas?"

"That would be very embarrassing," Thomas manages, but despite his words he presses himself down against Richard's leg, thighs tense. He's not all the way hard yet but he feels as if he will be in _moments,_ mere moments; he shifts again. He's already come in his fucking trousers today and he's not keen on doing it again, add to that he's spent the entire day taking ages to warm up, so why it's _now_ that his blood is pumping like he's half his age he's got no bloody idea, but —

"Yeah," Richard says to him, his voice low; when Thomas opens his eyes he's grinning _devilishly_ , "yeah, Thomas, I think it would be very embarrassing for you."

He keeps saying his _name._

Thomas whimpers.

"You'd deserve it," he adds, mouth against his cheek. Against his will – he can pretend, at least – Thomas draws his feet up toward his thighs and opens his knees; Richard keeps the pressure firm on his shoulders. His breath is warm at his ear.

 _Say something,_ Thomas tells himself, and he starts, "if it makes you feel better – oh, fuck, Richard, _oh_ – "

After one last grind of his thigh up against him he's let go of him and drawn away entirely. Thomas resists the urge to palm at himself in his absence. "I'm being nice," says Richard, and Thomas could pick a bone there but he's being nice, himself, so he won't, "so I won't try, not this time… shall we clean up, then?" 

And that is how they end up in the washroom with Thomas kneeling with his legs spread and taking a flannel to certain places while Richard sits on his arse beside him and watches.

"View can't be that nice."

"I beg to differ," says Richard. He has an intense sort of look in his eyes, and Thomas can't meet it; he tosses the cloth into the wash basin — it lands perfect — and sits back on his heels, uncertain.

Richard presses a kiss to the edge of his shoulder and takes his left hand. It… makes him vaguely uncomfortable, the way he doesn't shy from touching it, but it's not a bad sort of discomfort. One he should probably just push through and get over.

Funny how he's spent all this time wanting somebody not to care and now that he has it he wants to go back to how it was before. Except he doesn't know if he wants that or not, he suspects he doesn't, but what he _does_ want is too vague to put a finger on and he only knows what he _knows,_ so — 

"What's this?" Richard asks, stroking his thumb along his hip with his other hand.

Thomas starts. After he figures out what the hell he'd meant by the remark, he asks, snippy, not a real question, "haven't you seen it already?"

Because this is far from the first time they've been nude in front of each other.

Richard shakes his head, then nods, then blinks; he fumbles, pulling his hand away like he's touched hot coals, mouth slightly open. It makes Thomas nervous, seeing it.

"Sorry," he says, "that was impolite – "

"If it's _manners_ you're worried about…" And that stops Richard from rambling on and on about it but doesn't make him shut his mouth. "It's a scar," Thomas tells him. 

Richard raises his eyebrows. "Very descriptive."

"If you know what it is, why'd you ask?"

"I – "

"Because I already know it's ugly, thank you – "

"It's not ugly."

Thomas blinks.

"Yes, it is. "

"Nothing about you is ugly, Thomas," emphatic.

Now it's Thomas's turn to gape like a fish, but he manages to come to his senses after only a few seconds — by biting his lip until it hurts and feeling suddenly ashamed of himself. Shame is not a feeling he especially enjoys under regular circumstances, but seated on a towel in the washroom entirely undressed _because they are getting ready for bloody buggery_ just may be the worst possible time for it. He's about to ruin the whole night if he doesn't tread careful.

Richard is just looking at him with wide eyes and a crease in his brow.

"You don't know that," says Thomas slowly. If he remembers to think proper about his words before he says them maybe this'll blow over and they can get on with it, but _thinking proper's_ not an easy task when he's remembering the same stupid decisions over and over and feeling a twist in his gut knowing he can never go back and redo them. "You can't know that." He swallows and stares at his knees, clenches his hand and then relaxes it. The cringing can stay on the fucking inside, because Richard's seen too much already. "Not when you don't know everything."

"Nobody knows everything."

"Yeah, well, I haven't told you _enough,_ then, how's that for descriptive?" he snipes, and…

"You're not alone in that," says Richard quietly. If he means for it to help, it doesn't. "Thomas, we don't have to – "

"It really is just a scar, all right? Got plenty."

Except Richard knows as well as he does that if that were really true, he wouldn't be making such a thing of this one.

"From what?" 

Because it doesn't look like an ordinary one.

Thomas takes a deep breath, but it's useless; he hesitates anyway. "Well, something I haven't told you about, obviously," he says. He wanted to sound nonchalant, but his voice trembles; he pulls away from Richard, clasps his hands in front of him and wonders why he doesn't have his glove on. As if he's not got enough to worry about where his fucking body's concerned.

Richard only looks at him.

"It's been there since I've met you," he says gently. 

"Then why are you only asking me _now_?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Because I forgot to think before I opened my mouth," he says plainly. "And if you wouldn't care to talk – "

"Look, I had to take – had to give myself injections for something," Thomas says, frustrated more than he has any right to be, "and I did a shoddy job of it. Was my own fault and I don't like talking about it."

As if he talks about it enough to even have an opinion on doing so.

Richard studies him, shrewd, and Thomas feels himself shrinking away from it, feels tension tugging at his back and shoulders. But if Richard notices, he doesn't seem to mind.

"Plenty of blokes've been ill in their lives," he says slowly.

"I wasn't _ill,_ " Thomas snaps. Richard's brow creases. "Was sick in the head, maybe, but I wasn't ill."

 _You're going back and forth again,_ Richard could say, _you're blowing hot and cold, you're shilly-shallying, why don't I just leave you right now, I haven't any idea why I've waited so long when you've given me so very many reasons to —_

"Right," is what he does say. "We won't discuss it, then. I'm sorry."

Thomas stares. 

"What?"

Richard is looking at his hip still. He opens his mouth but doesn't say anything for a moment. 

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Wasn't the right time to bring it up."

This he hadn't expected. 

There's a weight in his stomach all of a sudden; Thomas looks away from him and stares at his knees instead. He has normal knees, nothing worthy of mention in any direction, and while there was a time he'd have rather died than be average looking, that was about fifteen years ago at least and it strikes him now as a better set of circumstances than what he's ended up with, which is a body marred with reminders of every mistake he's made in his life that he can't fix no matter what he does. Handsome until you look closer at it.

_Nothing about you is ugly._

But what the fuck does he know?

"It's okay," Thomas mumbles. This time the slow breathing works. "You couldn't've known."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"I know."

"Do you need a minute?"

"No," he says, whiny.

Next to him Richard exhales, brings his hand up to his mouth and shuts his eyes. "Thomas," he says, all gentle, but he's coming off more like an exhausted mother than a lover.

"I'm sorry. For snapping."

"Thanks," Richard says, in the same voice. He stands. "Me, too." Thomas starts to get up, but he holds up his hand: "I'm gonna give you a minute, and then…"

"I'll join you," murmurs Thomas.

"If you like."

"I _do_."

"Right."

And then he's gone, letting the door fall shut behind him. It creaks on the hinges.

Thomas has no way of knowing if he's taking the time Richard expects — could be seconds, could be a minute, could be minutes, many-more-than-one, but he does stay put with his hands over his eyes until he feels _somewhat_ closer to having a hold over himself.

Then he goes to meet Richard in bed and completely loses whatever it is he's just found, but at least it's in a different fashion this time. He deals with it by neglecting to give him any warning before crawling into bed beside him and pressing kisses from his shoulder down his arm, attentive at the inside of his elbow and wrist. 

Richard shivers.

Just as he likes it.

He sits back up. "When was the last time _you_ did this," he says, maybe more pointed than he needs to be.

"Huh," Richard says, comically. "It's been years for me, too, now I think of it."

_Then why did you see the need to pity me for…_

Well, it probably hasn't been as many. Thomas raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Three or so?"

"Dunno why you're asking _me_."

He must find humour in anything, the way he laughs. Then, if Thomas himself had a smile so handsome as that one he'd probably laugh more, too, but there's a reason he's made a habit of keeping his mouth shut — it's a better look on him.

No matter what Richard says about pretending, about _knowing_ himself, he still gets on with everybody and not just for the nice face, Thomas thinks, although there's no denying that is probably a great help. Laughter comes easy to him and so does smiling, and he has had trouble and sadness in his life but he must have always come back from it sooner rather than later. No stewing or grudging for Richard Ellis.

Even in bed, it shows.

"Why do you like it better the other way?" Thomas asks, and… Richard just looks at him, assessing. Piercing.

For a second Thomas thinks maybe he hasn't understood the question, but that turns out to be a stupid train of thought.

"Why do you?"

Touché.

"Sorry."

A nod. "I don't know," Richard says, more seriously. But there's still that never-extinguishing light in his eyes. "But it doesn't matter, does it?"

Thomas shakes his head.

There's really only so long they can both sit here nude and talking around things.

" – you're confident this is what you want?"

What a stupid question.

"...right."

If all it takes is a raise of the eyebrows…

"What else would we get up to," Thomas says, a little flat, but he has the right to be peeved, he thinks.

"Well, there's something else we've only been doing one way round, too, isn't there," answers Richard, in a very performative sort of way like he's narrating for a show on the wireless, and it takes Thomas a second to figure out what exactly he means by it.

By the time he does he knows he's blushing more than he should be. _You are a grown man,_ he chastises himself.

"Can't talk to me if your mouth is busy," he quips.

"You like it that much, then? Me talking?"

"Don't rub it in."

But Richard only laughs, fond. "Suit yourself," he says, and then, "it'll be nice to have you underneath me for a change," which only makes Thomas blush more.

Only they end up with Richard on his back and Thomas kneeling over him, almost straddling, upright, but when he starts to pull off of —

"No," Richard says, holding up a hand, "no, stay put."

"If I fall off of you– "

"I know what I'm doing," Richard says, cheeky. Thomas finds he can only look at him. "I promise."

So he stays on his back and Thomas _actually_ straddles him, and it is admittedly arousing even if he's not used to doing this so early on in the act.

From there things go as they usually do… 

They'd gotten close to this in July.

It's even better now. Richard does know what he's doing: he takes his time before he even enters him, cupping him in his hand and using a light touch with his fingertips. Thomas fidgets, half-hard — this is what he likes best when it comes to doing this in particular, aside from the obvious, is everything that comes before, when it's nice and slow and he knows it's for him because of it, that the bloke he's with isn't going to finish in a minute's time and then abandon him to his own hand. Intentional. Sometimes so much that by the time they actually get to the main event he's so overwrought he forgets himself, forgets where he is and can make it _last,_ doesn't have to think about what it is he's getting up to and where (never anywhere clean, never anywhere nice). If a man is really good at it Thomas can trick himself into pretending like he'll be around forever. Trick himself into believing he has something. Even though the best shags tend to be the ones who leave the fastest, the ones who've got years of practice milking it for all it's worth and probably because they've got wives at home.

But this isn't like that, he tells himself, _this isn't like that._ He hasn't done that in a long time and he isn't doing it now and if he has his way he never will again, not ever.

"I seem to remember," Richard breathes, "your mentioning that you think about this."

Thomas circles his hips. With two prepared fingers Richard parts his cheeks, keeping him open, forcing him to think about how _empty_ he is.

It's the exact opposite of what he wants.

"Think about you _filling me,_ " he says pointedly. "Think about taking your fucking prick – oh!" 

A genuine fucking exclamation.

He bites his lower lip.

Richard grins, says, "shhh," and he moves his middle finger, must be about halfway in, around in circles, pressing at his insides. Thomas squeezes. 

"Calm down, Thomas."

"Fuck me," he breathes.

"Not yet."

He shakes his head; "no, not yet."

Richard pushes his finger all the way in, slow and steady, then pulls out and presses around his entrance, coating him in vaseline with just his fingertip. It's like he's _trying_ to make him feel that way, to make him feel like he's missing something. 

He goes on like that for what feels like ages, just pressing him open at the rim, he's not even fucking _inside,_ until Thomas whines, "more."

"Let's get you used to one." 

If his voice is any indication, Richard finds his desire amusing. 

There's also the way he's beaming, unabashed, even flushed and sweaty.

But he finally goes in again, still moving in broad circles, making room in him.

Thomas cants his hips down and back as Richard begins to pump his finger in and out, still much too narrow for his liking especially after all that — but the speed, leisurely, is perfect. He did tell him he likes it slow, and he feels a rush of affection in realising he must have remembered. But Richard keeps his finger absolutely straight.

To make up for it, Thomas grinds down toward his hand.

Now he's gotten over the initial stretch, it isn't enough.

He wants him deeper and thicker.

"Want your bloody cock in me," he says.

Richard raises his eyebrows.

"You've got a foul mouth, Mr Barrow."

"When I like."

When he isn't thinking about the words coming out of his mouth because he's more aroused than he can stand, he means.

And Richard continues to pass his finger in and out of him, making him want more of everything and bloody teasing but not doing anything especially breathtaking just yet other than making him think about what he is certain _will_ be breathtaking —

"Never seen you quite like this," Richard continues, conversational.

He does manage to repress the impulse to say _never fucked me quite like this,_ a feat worthy of a bloody medal.

"I wish you could see yourself, Thomas."

Thomas tries to say words but the sound that comes out of his mouth is more like _guh,_ which isn't _fair;_ there is no reason whatsoever for him to be speechless already. None at all. 

It's Richard's fault, somehow.

Thomas clenches, relaxes.

It's no time at all before they share a nod: silent assent. Richard pulls out just as slowly as he'd gone in, takes his time in recoating his fingers for the second go. Thomas can hear it.

Two is better.

"Like that," says Thomas breathlessly. "I like that."

Richard keeps them straight and closed, even though he knows better. His hand is still, too. Thomas keeps on undulating his hips, taking from him what he can. 

"I like that," he repeats, and Richard looks up at him with an amused smile and affection in his eyes, crinkled at the corners.

And then he begins to move, slowly thrusting in and out of him, from just his fingertips at the rim to as deep as his knuckles. His hands are not small and it is fucking perfect.

"Open them," Thomas murmurs, and then he clears his throat and says, more firmly, "open me up for you."

He did have a point about the foul mouth, but he's losing his head to sensation and he can't stop himself from saying every needy thought that comes into his head.

"Moving a little fast, now, aren't we?" asks Richard, but he's blushing; his voice isn't as even as it was even a moment ago. He is losing his composure, Thomas notes with satisfaction.

"No," and Richard scissors his fingers and goes just slightly deeper before pulling out, still keeping them wide, and then more wide, and —

" _Maybe,_ " Thomas gasps, "maybe – " 

He closes them, and that sensation is also _almost too much._

"Best listen to me, Mr Barrow, I do know what I'm on about."

And there it is again because he gets off on being right just as much as he does being touched.

Well, they'll just have to see how long that lasts, won't they.

This would all be simpler if he was lying on his back.

Though doing so is awkward, Thomas manages to get his thigh firmly between Richard's legs, up against him; he _also_ manages to get himself just that much further onto his fingers, which have stilled.

"Jesus," Richard breathes, with a jut of his pelvis toward Thomas's knee.

He'll have to remember that one; it's the second time it's happened.

They both like the same things, don't they? Sometimes.

"You want me," he says, telling him more than making a comment, "you want me, too," and Richard composes himself. He pulls his fingers out almost all the way before slowly pushing them in again, and this time when he opens them he doesn't tease, doesn't go further than he can handle, just parts them a little and then closes them, twists his hand from the wrist. 

"I do."

He draws his fingers out to the first knuckle and crosses them before entering him once more; Thomas can feel the way the shape changes, narrow and then wide. He lets his head fall back.

"That's it, love," and then his palm is up against him and his fingers are uncrossed and flat and he's _bending them_ and he's found it, he's pressing up against that place in him and this is the first time he's done this and he's doing it like this, just keeping them there unmoving, just touching it, and Thomas gasps, his breath is caught in his throat and he can't feel anything at all until he starts _rubbing,_ and Thomas hears himself make soft and needy little noises just like Richard does when he's close, he pushes his hips, tries to get more, but he's just holding them there and fucking _massaging_ and his entire body might as well be on fucking fire — "good, Thomas, breathe, love."

"Slow down," he chokes out.

"Breathe," Richard says, and then he eases up, straightens out, and Thomas tries to, thinks inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale, and it – it works, it does work, but it takes a moment.

Richard is unmoving inside of him — he's not touching him there anymore, but he's still _inside of him,_ a constant presence.

"More?" he asks, and Thomas shakes his head.

His eyes are squeezed shut; he opens them. Richard is looking up at him and positively beaming.

"P - proud of yourself?" Thomas asks him, stammering. He doesn't have the upper hand at all, and that is not what he wants, but seeing his smile makes him throw all those stupid ideas out the window.

"I am."

"Can't," begins Thomas, and he shudders because he can't stop bloody thinking about the fact that he's seated on Richard's thigh with his _hand inside of him_ and it is so, so, so much better than he ever could have imagined. "Can't – don't do that, if, if – "

"If I want you to last?"

Thomas nods.

"What can I do, Thomas?" he asks, low and soothing.

In some other person's voice he replies, "stay put," closes his eyes again and bites his lower lip hard, seeking to feel something different, in a different part of his body.

He takes a deep, gasping breath, and then another, and then Richard is rubbing his other hand up and down his leg: "what can I do for you, love?"

And then, and in the back of his mind, the part that still works, Thomas is charmed by how _considerate_ he is, by how thoughtful and sweet, and it's probably a disproportionate reaction, because it's brought on only by how Richard goes for a yes-or-no question this time: "can I move again, Thomas, would you like that?" and Thomas nods without hesitating.

"I'll go slow – there, be easy, love."

Richard draws his fingers out about an inch, pushes them back in. 

Thomas clasps his hand on top of his free one, and Richard squeezes his fingers and keeps moving, gentle, "steady, Thomas." He's got no idea how long for, but eventually he's almost used to it.

Almost.

Won't take long, now.

"Just how you like, isn't it?"

_God it is –_

"I – I want – "

"What do you want, Thomas?"

"Your cock," he says, without hesitating, but his voice is still too high and too breathless.

"Best get you ready for it, then," says Richard pleasantly. He continues the motion, staying shallow, focusing on preparing him at the entrance, and all Thomas can think is that no matter how talented he is with his hands his prick is going to be better.

"You're going to be good," he breathes, he's found his words again, and then he tries, "you're going to be good, _darling,_ " because he wants it to be natural and that's going to take practise, and when he opens his eyes Richard's smile is undeniably sincere, full of affection.

"Given the matter some thought?"

"Yeah."

"How much, would you say?"

A little deeper, and then he's opening them again.

"Only you made it sound like it was a nightly sort of thing."

Thomas gasps, nods _yes._ His prick is hard and soon to be aching, but if he touches himself, let alone asks Richard to touch him, he will probably come right then and there.

He lowers himself down along Richard's thigh and puts more weight onto his chest, almost on top of him, and it takes more effort than he'd thought it might to stay up; his shoulders shake.

"There you are," Richard says, slowly scissoring his fingers inside him, "stay calm, love, lie down with me here," and he takes the words to heart and lets himself do just that, so that he's resting upon Richard's chest with his hips up, wanton, allowing him room. 

He was not anywhere near this kind and gentle when he was in Richard's place. Nowhere close. He probably doesn't deserve this sort of treatment, but he's not going to be complaining any time soon.

The opposite, in fact.

"You're doing so well for me, Thomas."

He puts his weight back into his knees and tilts his hips more onto his hand, seeking. He's being a bit more adventurous now, avoiding the prostate (which is for the best, and Thomas did ask, after all) but still giving him some surprises — he crosses his fingers again, for example, while he's inside of him, and he starts slowly pushing in and out of him like _that;_ when he gets to the outside, at the rim where he's sensitive, Thomas shudders.

"Good, love," Richard breathes, and he kisses the side of his head; Thomas reciprocates with a kiss to his chest. "Being so good for me, keep on."

Thomas whimpers at the words and the affection both, turns his head to the side and tries to do as he's told.

"You are being good for me, aren't you?"

Is he supposed to _answer the question?_

"Is – is it good for you, Thomas?"

 _That_ he understands.

He manages to breathe out a "yes," and Richard says, "that's all I need to hear," and presses his lips again to his hair. He's not _entirely_ still underneath him: he'll tense in his abdomen or move his hips, but for the moment (isn't Thomas lucky) he's not focused on himself.

For a while that's all they're doing — Thomas lying upon Richard's chest with his hips in the air and his cock heavy and Richard's arm underneath him, probably drooling all over his chest but knowing that's not the worst thing either of them are going to have to deal with and sucking up his embarrassment. Too late for that, anyway, when he's rocking his hips onto Richard's fingers, his two fingers dragging in and out of him like he could do this all day. Like he's doing this for him and only for him, because he is certainly going neglected. He hears the noises leaving his mouth and the way he's breathing and he whines, a little, and Richard turns his hand, strokes a different part of him; he shifts on top of him and tries to get _more_.

"That's perfect, Thomas, exactly," breathes Richard.

It might be going on forever; slowly but surely Thomas is losing his fucking mind.

"How are we, love?"

Thomas takes a deep breath, relaxes around him as best as he can, and says, "three."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Thomas says, more emphatic, and then he adds, "yes, please," and Richard's laugh is soft and comforting.

"Pleased to see you can be polite after all."

"When I like."

After all that being _empty_ is unpleasant.

He shifts his weight to allow Richard the space to take his arm out from underneath him, but after that he can only rest upon his chest, his erection woefully unacknowledged between them — he hopes he doesn't lose it, that happens, sometimes. He turns his head to the side, such that he can vaguely see Richard slicking up his fingers again one handed, and the sight makes his cock twitch.

He's getting some energy back, now.

"Fuck," Thomas says, "fuck, Richard, bloody hell," and he moans as Richard flutters his fingers just barely beyond his opening. _Three_ is wide, more than his prick will be, in one direction at least, and it is _fucking perfect_.

"You like that?"

" _Yeah,_ God, I – deeper – "

Richard obliges him, says, "beautiful, love," but he is completely out of breath. 

Thomas thrusts back onto his hand, rolling his hips back and forth.

"You can," he starts, and his voice is muffled; he pushes himself up off of his chest just enough so that he can sit back on him even further, straddling him allows a better view — his eyes are closed; he's sweating. Thomas gasps. "You can do it again. Darling."

"Touch your – "

"Yeah, yes, fuck – "

He obliges him that, too. 

Thomas grits his teeth through a moan. His whole body shudders; his breaths are short and noisy. _Hold on,_ he tells himself, _not yet._ Underneath him Richard is blushing beautifully, opening and closing his mouth; he finally looks just as Thomas remembers from before, from London, overwhelmed and needy. 

And he hasn't touched him.

He hasn't touched him at all.

Probably why — and he decides that he _won't,_ not anytime soon, because he knows what Richard is like and he wants them both to last. And Richard is not going to last if he gives him his hand, he can tell that much, and that's what it takes for him. He's told him so himself.

So Thomas resists the urge to reach down between them and hold him, resists the way his mouth waters at the thought. Instead, he leans forward and kisses him, putting more weight onto his torso; he takes Richard's upper lip in his teeth and bites, just a little. Down below he starts to be more assertive, moving with larger motions. He wants this. Needs it.

When they break apart he says, "eyes open," gleefully, just like earlier, and though it takes him a moment Richard manages.

"Thomas," he breathes, and in that moment it is by far the loveliest thing he has ever heard said.

Bracing himself, Thomas lays one hand on Richard's shoulder and sits back onto his fingers, twists his hips, and it's so good, it feels so fucking good to be taking this for himself from the most beautiful man in the world while all he can do is lie there wanting to be touched, wanting Thomas, and he hasn't forgotten their objective, here, when he gives in he'll be good and thoughtful, he's an excellent lay where this is concerned and he'll make sure Richard knows it, but for now he just wants his hand.

He can come when he's fucking him, after all. That's the damn point, anyway, is that this feels good for both of them at the same time eventually.

Seems as if he's succeeded in getting the upper hand, then.

"God, love, I'm ready when you are – "

_You want me, you want me, he wants me, Richard Ellis wants me and the feeling is very, very mutual –_

"One more, darling," Thomas says, voiceless.

"You can't be seri – "

"I am, I am, fuck, you're bloody perfect – "

"Thomas," Richard says, pleading, and then he's _whining,_ "Thomas, I'm not fucking _doing_ anything anymore – "

"One more – "

"For the love of God – "

But Thomas presses himself up to kneel around him, off his fingers, and waits impatiently for him to come back with more. He adores this, he really does, sitting here straddling his hips looking down at him as he coats his fingers with more vaseline _because he is going to put four of his fucking fingers inside of him,_ and he can't keep himself from rubbing backward against Richard's thigh.

Makes his mind go to nice places.

"I'd take your whole bloody hand if you'd let me," and they both know that's highly unlikely at best, but the face Richard makes at the suggestion is worth it.

In the back of his mind he is worried that they are going to run out of vaseline.

When Richard slips his hand up against him again, Thomas clenches and relaxes, presses his hips back until Richard gets up the nerve to do anything. _Breathe,_ he tells himself, because apparently Richard can't tell him anything anymore, _breathe, this is on you to make work,_ and the tension leaves him just as Richard starts once more to move. It's nice and slow like before; he starts with fingertips, then to knuckles, and Thomas realises he's gasping for air — _breathe._

Richard is gazing up at him with evident concern.

"I'm fine," says Thomas. He is better than fine, and he pulls himself down with his heels as best as he can, tries to get more of him _in._

"Thomas," but he shakes his head, cuts him off.

Because it's like everything has cleared up, the fog has lifted, and now his words are back.

"I could bring myself off just on your hand," he says, still breathless, but he's smirking, it's almost a challenge, to himself more than Richard, but they're not ending here, not tonight. There's more he wants. "Just like this." He knows he could; he knows it already. "Could do – could do all the work and fuck me for you – more, Richard, God, take a bloody hint," and he squirms to get him deeper, laughing; it's strange that they can laugh while midway through having sex, but they've managed it several times now.

"Want to?" Richard says, more confident now, coming back to himself, and Thomas shakes his head. He wants his prick is what he wants, he wants to be fucked like he used to be but by someone who loves him, loves him enough to take ages preparing how he likes and needs it and say sweet nothings that aren't really _nothing_ , loves him enough to fill him with four damn fingers, _four,_ that practically is his whole bloody hand, and he really could come from this, looking down at Richard and Richard's arm between his legs and he's riding his fingers, insistent —

_Fuck._

"Yeah," he breathes, "yes, actually, I do, let me," and he makes an effort to breathe all the way into his lungs, counts before exhaling, "let me." He adjusts such that he's sitting further up on his legs and back on his hand, carefully avoiding his cock and pushing all the way down again upon his hand, searching for the sensation of _full_ and careful to keep relaxing around him all the same; it is _incredible._ He's keeping his fingers close together; Thomas wants them flat.

"I – open them," he says, rudely, but he doesn't care. "Want more."

When he does it's too much, a ripple through his body he isn't quite ready for, and Thomas hisses, doesn't complain when Richard brings them back together again — that's admittedly closer to what they were going to do, anyway.

"Yes," he says, but it's lost in his throat. " _Yes,_ Richard."

Richard makes a strangled noise. His cock is up on his belly, fully erect; Thomas, in a careful balancing act, reaches down to hold it there with his thumb, and Richard resorts for what seems like the hundredth time in two days to muffling his own noise with a pillow.

_Who would ever believe you're so self-assured as you are seeing you like this, seeing you in bed with me desperate out of your mind._

"My darling," Thomas breathes, and he gets back to using Richard's hand how he likes, long, slow movements.

Narrow at his fingertips, wide at his knuckles, he goes back and forth and does his best not to stay in one place for too long, to make it last — his own prick is straining, dripping onto Richard's chest, and the sight is obscene and wonderful all at once.

"Let me see your face," says Thomas, his bloody beautiful face, "wanna look at you," and his wish is granted as Richard turns from the pillow.

"Thomas, Thomas, you," he's incoherent now, rocking his own hips, trying to get more from him as before, and it's so fucking delightful seeing him like this that Thomas can't even bring himself to feel all that bad about putting himself first. But what he does feel is enough to spur him to action, and he strokes him again with his thumb, insistent.

When Richard squeezes his eyes shut and groans, Thomas can't hold back anymore — he begins, _God, God,_ to do even more of the work on his own, clenching around all four fingers inside of him and then relaxing even further, a push pull, desperately moving to get him more forward. He sucks his cheeks in and presses his lips closed so as not to moan, or he tries to, but he has to give up almost immediately. Now incoherent himself, he can't stop himself from babbling: "so good, Richard, fuck, so good, God, let me have you, darling, all the way, give it to me…"

This time, Richard spreads his fingers flat in one quick motion and twists his hand, and Thomas moans, shameless.

He knows he'll be sore later; he's already sore now — stretched wide, at it for long enough, but he likes it, he wants it so badly; he circles his hips as Richard, thankfully still doing his best to contribute at all, Thomas really ought to be less of a bastard next time, spreads his fingers further, keeping him open, then bends and crosses them in ways he could not have possibly come up with in his position, thumb at his perineum exacting gentle pressure.

God, it's so much, when was the last time he had anything like this? Years, it has to be years, and Thomas imagines that he did have his whole hand, wrist-deep, thick inside of him, and if they were to actually go that far he'd be terrified by it but in his thoughts it's bloody wonderful, the idea of Richard filling him, what that would be like, he must be mad, he'd go mad, he's already going mad.

He can feel it building in him with each pulse, each time he shifts in aim for what he's seeking. He's far gone, well and truly fucking himself, and _isn't that a fucking thought;_ beneath him Richard is whining, all that poise long gone.

"My darling," he says again, and he tilts his head back and bites his lip and lifts his hips one last time, full and so close, so close, and as he pulls away, Richard leaves his hand where it is, prodding inside of him as he lowers himself down again. Emboldened, Thomas grabs his forearm and holds him in place as he rolls his hips down and forward, yearning, and Richard curls his fingers inside him and a thrill runs through his entire body. All he can do now is to grind against his fingers and he _will_ , he will for as long as he can bear it, he needs this he needs it more than anything, those shocks through his body making his head spin, his legs trembling, and his cock is straining and if were to be touched he'd give in then and there but he won't touch himself because what he wants most is what he already has, and he bites the inside of his cheek and closes his eyes and Richard says "Thomas," and then he's coming untouched all over his chest, Richard pressing and releasing his fingers, working him through it and making the sweetest noises, needy ones that make Thomas feel smug and satisfied, and he grips onto Richard's arm for dear life and rubs, he didn't know he had this much in him; as he collapses on top of him Thomas cries out, overwhelmed, breathing heavily, but finished. He trembles as Richard pulls out, winces at the slight pain and more than that the sense of _too much,_ the hell was he thinking taking four when this was the first time he's been fingered at all like that in years… 

"Love you," he murmurs, in his own world, reeling.

"…you, too, but Christ, Thomas, please," Richard is saying, breathless, he's rubbing up against Thomas's thigh with vigour. "Thomas – "

— well, he's exhausted and warm and satisfied and still seeing stars, but he's not _cruel._ After a moment of searching, Thomas takes Richard firm in hand, strokes him up and down and presses his head into his shoulder.

"Please," Richard says, choked; _I promise I will make this up to you eventually,_ Thomas thinks. "I – "

Richard moves against him in desperation, soundless until Thomas brings his hand lower to fondle him and press his thumb into the base of his prick, and –

Thomas gathers just enough energy to kiss him again before he bloody screams or something and gets them both arrested, and then he's coming all over his hand between them, gasping and moaning into his mouth.

And now they can both be still.

Thomas curls up with his head on Richard's shoulder and his arm draped along his side, Richard's own arm wrapped around him, and they breathe in unison, clinging to one another.

Unmoving, Thomas murmurs, "my darling."

He feels like he could fall asleep — he'd regret it, he won't, but he could. That won't stop him from yawning, though.

"God, Thomas," Richard says, not like he's fed up but like he's praying. "What the hell is wrong with you," and Thomas laughs.

"Plenty," he returns, "but you liked it."

Except then he doesn't say anything, and Thomas panics, because he knows he was selfish and he doesn't entirely know what came over him that he managed to keep that attitude the entire time, starts to sit up – "didn't you like it?"

Richard tugs him back down by the wrist. "I did."

When he swallows, Thomas can feel it and hear it both.

"Best yet," he adds, in a whisper, and sweet as the idea is — that of all they've gotten up to he best liked the bout during which he spent most of his time on his back letting Thomas do the work and going untouched besides — that's surely an exaggeration.

He says as much.

Richard shakes his head, chin knocking into Thomas's forehead. They both laugh.

"You can't mean that," says Thomas, amused. "Wasn't even touching you for most of it."

At the beginning and at the end, with great pains not to in the middle, because he was being greedy, didn't want it to end before he was ready for it. He'd probably have gone mad being on the other end of that, asking for it and being denied, going through most of it without being touched, desperate. Richard must have been aching the whole time. It does make the end result better, waiting; Thomas knows that from experience, but he's never cared for everything in the middle. Not his cup of tea, personally, there's no shame in it, of course, surely there are men who do care for it, but —

And then he realises, like an idiot, that he must be in bed with one of them.

Everything makes a lot more sense now.

Richard makes a very interesting noise.

"What's that?" Thomas asks, and as always he's incapable of hiding his feelings now he's satisfied; it sounds like he's poking fun.

He is, of course.

"Liked it when you were," Richard says, unbothered.

And that's not a _lie,_ exactly, but… 

"Do you want to know what I think, Mr Ellis?" Thomas says lightly. "I think you liked it when I weren't just as much."

Silence.

Thomas kisses his neck, lips closed, chaste.

"If not more."

Richard hums. His voice is not quite as nonchalant as it could be. "I shan't deny it."

"'Cause you can't."

"What do you want me to say to that, Thomas?"

"Nothing," he replies, "but I am going to remember this." He will, because it's _delightful;_ it really does all makes sense now, everything. He laughs again, soft, can't help it, and Richard makes another small noise that might be out of embarrassment. Trying to soothe, Thomas rubs his clean hand, his left hand, up along the outside of his thigh, gently pressing with only his fingertips. "I am going to remember this," determined, "I'm gonna remember that you _like_ when I make you wait, you liar, and I am going to use it against you, Richard Ellis, you mark my words."

"Secret's out," Richard says, too breathless to be as flippant as Thomas thinks he intends to be.

"Absolutely bloody right it is," Thomas replies, gleeful. He doesn't know why this is so exciting. "I bet you I could make you beg."

"A bet only a fool would take, Mr Barrow."

"You asked me not to before, or I'd've done it already."

But he did beg just now, Thomas realises — not as much as he might have, but a little.

"Does that necessarily mean I shouldn't have enjoyed it if you had?" Richard asks, lilting.

And though his eyes are closed, Thomas can just picture the look on his face, eyebrows raised and falsely serious, the way he does. God, this is bloody terrific; this is excellent; if only he'd been wise enough to figure it out earlier. He doesn't blame himself, he was nervous as anything before — but it could have been even better.

"You're bloody wonderful, Richard, you know that?" he says.

"I might."

"My darling," Thomas breathes, and it's still thrilling to say, _my darling,_ they belong to each other, they're really, truly lovers, stupid pet names and all, and he kisses Richard's jaw. "God, I'm lucky, aren't I, I'm the luckiest man alive."

"Second luckiest."


	10. two spoonfuls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see
> 
> goal is to get this finished by 2021 but no promises
> 
>  **content notes:** orgasm delay, mild verbal humiliation, mild internal turmoil about liking kinky sex, discussion of hazy consent situations.

In the morning they wake side by side at a quarter to six.

"Not bloody fair," Thomas grumbles, and Richard laughs, tugs him over.

"It's all to do with habit, Mr Barrow."

His hand is on the small of Thomas's back, he moves it lower, and lower, and then between his thighs —

"Shit," he says, burying his head into Richard's chest, and then the hand is gone.

"Don't know how you expected to feel this morning," Richard says lightly. 

Thomas laughs, but he's shaking.

"I," he starts, throat dry; he clears it. "Might've, erm, set us up for…"

"Less excitement," finishes Richard, amused. He touches him again, up between his shoulder blades, just resting his palm there. He drums his fingers in a way that almost tickles, laughs. "You were a bit greedy, there, weren't you."

It's different when other people say it. 

_He's teasing he's teasing he's teasing he's_

"Don't call me that," Thomas breathes, hoarse again. He doesn't snap; it's only a murmur; that's good. He's improving, and that's good. He's not going to go berserk –

Richard stops tapping his fingers and simply presses to his chest, and Thomas holds his breath on purpose, waits.

"Sorry," says Richard quietly. "Won't again."

And as he strokes the back of his head he's able to exhale.

Frustrated with himself, Thomas says it, too, "sorry," and then his face is back into Richard's shoulder, cheek to his collarbone.

This is their last morning — the last one when they won't be scrambling to get a train, at least. He can't fuck it up now.

"Don't apologise when it comes to the little things like this," Richard says. He says it like he couldn't care either way, but Thomas knows he does. "My fault."

"Thought I was skittish."

"There's a reason I didn't take that one back." 

But there's no malice, no frustration. No nerves, not anymore. 

After yesterday he thinks maybe these things are gonna be different from here on out.

Underneath him Richard shifts, and then he presses an awkward kiss to Thomas's head. After a moment he laughs. "You know, I may not mind being called it."

"What, skittish?"

A cough.

It takes him a second, but once he's figured it out… 

"Oh, you _are_ a funny one."

"Don't I know it," says Richard airily. He gives him a nudge with his knee; Thomas lifts his head up. "Weren't you going to shave me this morning?"

Thomas raises his eyebrows. Of all the ways to change a subject. Shouldn't have brought it up if he didn't want to talk about it… not that Thomas is any better at that. "Different priorities today, Mr Ellis?" he asks.

"Doubt you're up for anything."

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

"Am I right in that?"

"Yeah," Thomas says eventually. "Yeah, I…"

"Think we've already had more in two nights than some blokes get in a year," Richard says. He's still all light about it. "No harm done if that was the last of it."

Thomas does _not_ agree, but he's also in no position to argue and suspects he will not be anytime soon.

"Some blokes," he repeats wryly, "what, you mean like me until I met you – "

"Besides," continues Richard, "good motivation to plan another time, isn't it?"

By way of an answer Thomas lowers his head back to his chest, gives him a kiss in the middle of his sternum before settling. "We are staying in bed until half six at the _earliest,_ " and Richard's laugh thrums in his head.

He wakes up again what must be some time later — to Richard trailing his fingers up along his side, hips-waist-ribs. It tickles, and that may or may not be what actually wakes him up, but Richard relents as soon as his eyes are open and so he only laughs once.

"Why'd'you like doing that so much," he mumbles. The words tangle up in his mouth and don't unwind before they're spoken. And now Richard's touching his shoulder, the back of his neck…

It's no help.

Thomas closes his eyes again and curls into himself. If he'd gotten out of bed when he first woke up he wouldn't be so bloody drowsy.

"I like seeing you smile."

"Mmph."

"And I like waking you up in the morning."

"You've not done it before…"

"Even so," Richard tells him. His fingers are soothing against his scalp, but they still. "Surely I have?"

He shakes his head.

"No."

"...Jesus, doesn't feel like we've only ever had four mornings to ourselves, does it."

"Not especially," Thomas says into the pillow. 

"Haven't even had a week together all in all, have we?"

He sounds much too serious for Thomas's liking, and when he opens his eyes again and lifts his head to look, he's got a crease in his brow, his mouth twisted at the corner.

"What d'you call Downton, then," he returns, slow. He's still got sleep in his eyes; his limbs aren't yet all the way awake. But if he's doing the maths, they had about five days the first time and two the second, and now they'll have two-and-then-some. They hit a week in July.

"Wasted time, Mr Barrow."

Thomas feels the same way, really, most of the time, but hearing him say so is different. 

"Got to know each other, though," says Thomas. "Even before." An edge is slipping into his voice; Richard sighs. He's propped up on his elbow on his side and his hand has returned to caressing Thomas all over his back, head and shoulders. 

"Not in the way I'd've liked."

"You've seen the inside of my bedroom," he points out, flat.

"Too little, too late," Richard replies, and he might be smiling, his tone's not dark, but none of that comes together in a way that makes any sense. First thing in the morning and he's already unreadable. That's hardly a good sign for the things to come, is it?

It wasn't _all_ wasted. 

He'd never've gone with him anywhere if they hadn't seen something in each other those first few days.

"You know where I go to smoke."

"In the courtyard, you mean?"

"Why, are you gonna tell me specifically?"

"As I saw it you were only ever in that one bit with the work table," says Richard, even. He strokes the curve of his ear, and Thomas shivers. That grin is getting to him again. "Few paces off from the door, red brick at your back…"

"Very good memory you've got there, Mr Ellis."

And very poetic, somehow, but then everything he says is.

"I can picture it."

"Been months."

More than a year's worth.

"You were a sight for sore eyes," he says. "First time I ever saw you out of uniform, that's where you were, leaning up against the wall with a cigarette in your mouth and the sun shining just so…"

He's _trying_ to be poetic, then.

Thomas doesn't necessarily mind it. He hums, turns his face back into the pillow.

"I remember I was putting my gloves on and looking at you and just thinking, _God, if he isn't…_ "

"...then what in the bloody hell am I risking my job for?" Thomas finishes, muffled. 

After Richard's laughter subsides, he starts petting Thomas's hair, like when –

Like when he's in the middle of something he's not going to do again any time soon, but it feels nice. It certainly feels nice.

"Yeah," Richard answers, soft. But he's smiling; Thomas can picture _that_ with no problems. "Yeah, and praying I weren't about to head back up to London with a broken heart…"

God, does he love when he forgets to talk like he's upstairs.

"My memory's not so good as yours," he tells him. Richard tugs at a short strand of his hair, twists it, threads his fingers through again. He's fidgeting. "Don't remember as much as I'd like."

He'd been terrified of looking too close, and even more so of getting _caught._ If only he'd known how much he'd want to look back on it later he'd have paid more attention.

"I've had a Thomas Barrow photoplay rolling in my head since the day we met, I reckon."

 _I thought you said that was wasted time,_ he could say.

But he shouldn't. Not when that's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to him, for as long as he can remember — at this point Richard is his own competition, and he's putting up a good contest against himself.

And though he felt sharp before (owing to what he couldn't say, but the bitter is still there on his tongue), he doesn't want to do anything to discourage him from it. He says, "so, what else do you know about me from Downton, then?"

Richard picks up on the game.

"You take your tea with milk and sugar."

"Usually," Thomas corrects.

"Only ever seen you take it with milk and sugar, then — two spoonfuls, when you think nobody's looking up, or else just one."

His heart flips over.

"I don't know how the fuck you know that," says Thomas, pushing himself up, incredulous. Richard lets his hand fall, awkward. "I don't know how you – "

"I paid you some attention, Mr Barrow," says Richard quietly, but he doesn't take his eyes off of him. He's _nervous,_ that's what this is, he's nervous and that's why his mouth gets like that and his hands start to twitch, and though Thomas feels incredibly self-conscious — and why shouldn't he, he's naked and tangled up in bedsheets and Richard's just looking at him like he can see things he doesn't even know are _there_ — he also doesn't want him to close up or start trying to be somebody else again; he lays his palm upon his cheek and kisses him.

Richard's sigh has his voice in it. He doesn't do very much else but open his mouth, letting Thomas take as he likes, and so take he does. It is nice, to be the one doing the kissing for once; he's felt sometimes in the past day and a half that he's just letting Richard have his way with him (and he likes that, he does!) and this isn't that at all. This is him tonguing at Richard's chapped lower lip and grazing with his teeth in a way that makes him shudder, pressing his fingertips behind his ear and at the side of his neck and supporting him as he lets his head fall, at ease, tasting the inside of his mouth and knowing he's putting a thrill down his spine…

It ends.

Richard blinks his eyes open. He's smiling again, softer this time, reassured.

"Take it black when I'm nervous," Thomas tells him. "Black and scalding."

"Nervous very often?"

"Used to be." Foolish though it feels, he can't help but smile. "Trying to… not."

"So I've seen," says Richard gently.

Yeah, he would have by now.

Together they fall once more onto the pillows.

"I don't know how you take your tea," Thomas confesses. To Richard and to himself. He's drank it in his presence plenty of times, so there's no reason he doesn't know. He _should_ know. But then, it's not the sort of thing you focus on when you've only got a bloke for a day or so (nor when you don't actually know him yet). Probably was too busy staring at his mouth every time he could have noticed. "You – you like sugar in your coffee, I know that – "

"You'd better," says Richard. He's pink in the cheeks. Thomas thinks, _I love you._ "After you embarrassed me in front of your household for it."

"Brought you down off of that high horse, at least."

"Yeah, you'd already done that, too," with raised eyebrows. 

"Maybe I wanted to be sure I'd done it properly," Thomas says, coy. He searches under the covers until he finds Richard's waist, and then he slips his arm around him and pulls. It's nice, being close, and this isn't like yesterday. He doesn't have the sense of being on fire and desperate for somebody to put it out; he's not drowning in his own want. It's just the two of them and rain pattering against the window (it's a bloody monsoon out there) and a bed made warm for their being in it. "Besides, needed to get it over with early on…"

"Didn't _need_ to do it at all."

"...I'll have you know I was protecting the virtue of our housemaids, Mr Ellis."

"Is that why? Truly?"

"Had to show 'em the King's _second_ valet wasn't much more than a pretty face, didn't I?"

"Well, I don't think they took the lesson to heart."

"Too bad for them," says Thomas flippantly, because Richard's grinning at him devilishly and he doesn't intend to spend any more time than he needs to thinking about Gertie and Jane and Dorothy losing their bloody heads over him (which they _did,_ and God was it insufferable). "I wanted him for myself, and I'm the one who – "

"Got him in the end, yeah," and Richard tilts his head forward and they kiss again.

This is all he's ever wanted, this. 

Even if they're some place they don't know, some place they haven't got any claim to, some place they'll be leaving this time the next day — what time is it, actually? — this is what he's wanted his whole life and he's getting a taste for it, now.

Richard presses his thumb to his lips, entwines their legs. No matter how wrapped up in each other they are they're never close enough. "You wanted me from the first day, then," he says, eyebrows raised. 

Unfortunately for his dignity when he woke up the next morning, yes.

Thomas nods. "Erm, I liked what I saw, at least."

"Yeah, me too… liked what I was hearing."

Seeing as that's sort of contrary to what they've just talked about, Thomas raises his eyebrows back. 

"I found you compelling, Mr Barrow."

 _I love you,_ he thinks again, _I love that you are holding me and that we are talking about this and that I was not so alone as I thought I was._

But there's something else, too.

"You know all about me," says Thomas slowly. "Me, and where I live, and – and who I work with, but I'll never know the same of you."

"You know about who I work with."

"I know about a few insufferable people you work with," he corrects. "Not all of them."

"What more is there to know?"

"Chap by the name of Ernest comes to mind…"

"Don't be jealous," Richard says. Quick, but not defensive. "Been over for years now."

"And?"

"And now he's working for an Equerry, so I've outgrown him."

"Because a butler from Yorkshire's much of a step up," Thomas starts, but he's interrupted:

"He is to me," emphatic, once more pressing his fingers to his lips. "You are to me, Thomas."

Thomas nods, slow.

He likes being something to somebody. Likes being his _lover,_ likes being what he wants and being good for him, likes that they understand each other. Likes him, himself. It's getting easier to believe him when he says things like that.

He pulls him closer.

"...and you know where I work," says Richard, too brightly.

"I have seen the _outside_ of Buckingham Palace," says Thomas pointedly. "Not the _inside,_ and that isn't even the only place you work, is it? There's, what, Windsor Castle, and Sandringham…"

"The big house, yeah," he says, "but the household's stayed in London this year; ordinarily we'd go up for Christmas."

"Why's it different this year?" asks Thomas.

Richard pauses. 

"His Majesty is ailing."

Oh.

Well, he had known that; Richard had told him.

And it was in the papers.

And it was all the Crawleys talked about at meals for several weeks.

Easy to forget, though, with everything else that's going on in the world… or maybe more specifically, everything that's going on in this bed.

"Do you mind it?" he asks.

"Don't mind seeing you," he answers. "Corby wouldn't be halfway, if I were in Norfolk… and I loathe the place, actually, so no, not especially."

"Why do you hate it?"

"It isn't London," he says simply.

"Didn't realise you were so attached, Mr Ellis…"

"Yeah."

He's tired again; Thomas can tell.

Maybe he wore him out yesterday. Finally. Really, what does it take? They're men and they're not exactly young ones anymore, neither. 

And Richard is so charming when he's _worn out._ Maybe this is how he feels when he looks at _him_ after they have each other. Thomas doesn't like that he noticed so quick but there's nothing he can do about it, is there. Eighteen months together and Richard probably deserves to see him at his least guarded. Or whatever it is that gets into him. Then, that's not what's happening now—what's happening now is, Richard didn't get as much sleep as he ordinarily does and there's nothing he needs to do out of bed.

His eyes are all droopy.

"And you call _me_ sweet," Thomas says. He takes his hand and pulls it up between their faces, kisses his knuckles. Richard opens his eyes to smile, then closes them again.

"You are, Thomas."

"If you say it it must be true." 

"Well, I'm pleased you've finally come to your senses, on that score…"

Thomas would be in the right to smack him; he gives him more kisses, instead.

They fall back asleep—something Thomas doesn't realise til he wakes up again, his chest to Richard's back now, one arm curled up over his head and the other over his waist, hand on his belly. As he comes to he can't resist feeling him up and down, following the path of fine hair from his navel to down lower. He stops to thread his fingers into the hair between his legs, careful not to _touch_ any lower than he already is _,_ because the man is asleep and he has had enough trouble with sleeping men for a lifetime,but Richard shivers even so, going so far as to press himself back toward him with a little movement of his hips.

Thomas can't help but wonder if he's dreaming.

If he's dreaming about _him…_ about the first day, maybe, when Thomas fucked him, because why else would he be moving like that.

Well, plenty of reasons, probably.

And this has gone on long enough.

Thomas lets go of him, leans over to get a lamp on, and then comes back and kisses his shoulder. "Wake up," he says into his ear.

He doesn't, of course.

"Oi, Richard."

He gives him a gentle shake to the shoulders.

"Mnh," Richard says. And he stops moving, goes very still, but just for long enough Thomas can notice it before he's lifting his head, _almost_ twisting back to look at him, and then flopping back down.

"Hey," Thomas says, "don't be lazy."

"Fall back asleep?"

"Yes, you did," he tells him. Obviously he did the same, himself, but Richard doesn't need to know that. If he hasn't figured it out already. "And I thought you said you weren't gonna want anything, Mr Ellis, but from what _I_ see…"

He almost puts his hand back where it came from, then thinks better of it because he _just_ woke him up and maybe he doesn't actually want this, just cause he's moving around like he does doesn't mean...

"I said no such thing."

Well, lucky that's as he'd hoped...

Thomas isn't about to get too into anything himself after the spectacle he made of himself last night but seeing as Richard apparently was in desperate need of letting go some after six months not seeing each other he is very happy to help out in whatever way he can. "Didn't you?"

"For your sake."

"But not yours."

"No," Richard says, voice still all sleepy. "No, I don't mind if…"

"If what?" 

Richard hums. Thomas kisses his bare shoulder. "Is it that you don't _mind,_ or that you want it?"

"Caught me out," comes the reply, accompanied by laughter. Thomas puts his hand back, tangles his fingers in his rough hair and pets back and forth, stroking. God, he loves his _body_ , every part of it, and it seems sometimes like every part's just as sensitive as the next. "Feels – feels nice, Thomas."

"I'd hope so."

"Yeah," soft. "Yeah, that's…"

After one stroke very near to his prick Thomas retreats, putting his fingers together and cupping his hand at the top inside of his thigh, almost at his backside; when his legs shift, when he starts rubbing them back and forth at his knees and ankles, clearly trying to get his hand _somewhere else,_ that's when Thomas musters up the courage and says, hand in place, "last night," a squeeze (this is really the only part of his body where he's got enough _to_ squeeze) "when I made you wait."

Richard sighs, a light, pleased sound from the back of his throat.

"Did you like that?"

Always satisfying to poke fun at him, even when he knows the answer. 

"It certainly seemed like it…" With his other hand he smoothes back the hair at Richard's head, forehead to crown, petting like he's a cat. 

"Won't pretend I'm not fond of it," Richard murmurs.

"Of waiting?" Thomas asks sweetly.

"Mm."

"And what else are you fond of, Richard?"

He hopes he's right; he hopes he's right and there even is something else to be fond of, but he _thinks_ so… and there's no harm in investigating, is there?

This question Richard apparently does not have an easy answer for. Thomas has a sense for him now, though. He'll get it out of him; it's only a matter of sooner or later.

(He hopes.)

"Hm?

Another squeeze. All of Richard twitches. God is he sensitive.

"Never minded you talking," he mumbles.

Talking being something he's actually good at, to his recollection.

"Oh, you didn't, did you?"

"No," Richard says. Soft. Possibly even shy. Frankly he should be, given what Thomas thinks he's on about.

Unexpectedly, Richard turns partway on his back, weight against Thomas's chest, bringing his top leg back and bending it over Thomas's knees. It's an odd angle to say the least but he is starting to think that _odd_ might be what the man likes best.

Richard yawns. 

"My darling," Thomas says. "Have I worn you out?"

Probably he's just still drowsy from their lazing about in bed all morning. 

Richard's got nothing to say to that, so Thomas keeps on touching him. Even if he keeps adjusting he's not gonna be a conversationalist anytime soon. Funny, seeing as he can never keep his mouth shut the rest of the time.

Thomas loves him for it, of course.

"Well," he says. "If you're too sleepy to have a chat I think you must be too sleepy for me to touch you." It doesn't make sense, but it doesn't have to. One more curl of his fingers through the hair between his legs and then Thomas lets go, resting his palm at his navel. "Guess you'd better do it yourself."

"You wouldn't do that to me," Richard mumbles. Thomas could laugh. "Not this early in the morning."

It may be noon, for all they know. It's daylight.

"You don't know me very well after all, if that's what you think."

"Don't I?"

"No," he replies, "'cause I would. Actually."

Nothing to say to that.

"You start," Thomas goes on, "and when you're getting close I'll take over, if you like the sound of that."

"Do," Richard murmurs.

"Go on then." 

Richard doesn't need to be told twice; already his hand is on himself, stroking.

And there is something very appealing about how he is—that he waited til he was told, that he wanted to be told at all. That he's doing as Thomas says. It's the opposite feeling to the one he's had most of the last day and a half but it is equally captivating.

Thomas pushes himself up til he's seated, his legs bent and tucked just behind Richard's own, able to look down at him and see everything. "Are you saying when or am I?" he asks.

He doesn't even slow, in touching himself, but he turns over onto his back all the way, just so that he can look up at Thomas and smile. He can't decide whether to look at his face or his cock.

"When I'm taking over, I mean."

"I know what you meant," Richard says lightly. "I'll let you decide."

"Yeah?"

He nods.

Thomas feels something deep down in him he likes.

"You're not going to come off without me, are you?" he asks, drawing a line from his navel up to his sternum with one finger, then up to his collarbones, his throat, his chin… he lets his fingers rest at the side of his neck. Richard's breath hitches. "If I get to say when?"

He shakes his head, eyes just wide enough Thomas can tell he's had the effect he wanted.

"No," Richard says, hoarse—he's still touching himself casually, just strokes up and down in the most boring way imaginable, nothing very exciting. 

Not that exciting is required for a bloke to get off, but it's silly, almost, that this is all he's doing now. 

"I'll hold off," he adds.

"Will you?"

This time he nods.

Thomas wouldn't be touching him like that. He'd give certain parts of him especial attention—rub up at his foreskin with his thumb, the same way he liked having his tongue there, put his fingers underneath and feel between his bollocks and his shaft, see if he tenses up the same way as Thomas does, when he's teased there...

Doing stuff with his hands isn't normally what he thinks about, but maybe Richard's turned him on to it. He does all those things, himself, besides. He's more dexterous than Thomas is and though the one time it came up lately all he got was a joke about polishing buttons and stitching up hats, he suspects the real reason is more to do with lots and lots of practise.

"And actually," Richard adds, eyes heavy lidded now but still focused—focused and happy, he's still got a smile on his face like this is just a silly little game, "when I get close… make me wait."

"Wasn't that the plan?"

Based on the day before.

He shakes his head, just slightly. He has a halfway smile on his lips. "Might've been," he says, "in a manner of speaking."

"Then –"

"But I'd like for you to hold me off, actually. As opposed to stopping short."

"What, like…"

Thomas makes a gesture with his hand, because he is suddenly and immaturely too shy to use his bloody words.

Richard laughs. "Yeah, _like_."

He's doing a very good job of carrying on this conversation even with his hand on his cock. Still slow and leisurely, too. If it weren't for the flush in his cheeks and the sped up breathing and the way his pupils have gone wide—though maybe that's the low light, Thomas supposes—it would be as if he weren't doing anything at all.

"And once you have done I'm going to ask you to let me," he goes on, "and I'd like it if you-"

"Didn't?"

"Yeah. Yeah, if you didn't." He grins, reaching up with his free hand to tap on Thomas's shoulder in a pattern that feels familiar but he can't place. "Make me ask again."

To _let_ him.

This is getting to be more complex than Thomas had first imagined it to be.

"Okay," he says slowly. 

Richard starts, "and," but Thomas interrupts—

"Did you write a list?" he teases.

If he'd not been blushing before he certainly is now. "Well, you don't have to do any of it, do you, just thought I'd ask."

"What else am I going to do but what you ask for?" Thomas counters. "Hm?"

He taps under his chin again.

Richard laughs (good to know he, too, is ticklish) but he shuts his eyes, too, scrunching up his whole face and turning his head away.

Darling.

"If you're uninterested we can always go about this some other way."

"When did I say I was uninterested?" he asks, affronted. "Maybe I just want to be sure I've got it all."

The eyes open. He's not grinning anymore but he does still have a smug look, a slight turn at his lips. "I _could_ write a list," he says.

"Oh?"

"Could write you plenty, couldn't I, we've been spending all these months going back and forth with letters and I forgot about post office boxes–"

"You're changing the subject, Mr Ellis."

"Yeah," he replies, lifting his chin. "I am."

At least he admits it.

"Does it embarrass you, that you want these things?" 

Immediately Richard opens his mouth, ready to make some quip and avoid the question, but Thomas puts his finger to his lips and it keeps him from it.

"I was wondering if maybe you liked being made to feel that way," Thomas goes on, eyeing him up, watching for signs. He speaks slowly, though. Careful.

When Richard swallows, Thomas can both see it at his throat and hear the sound.

He pulls his hand away.

"A bit," Richard murmurs.

He has done from the very first day, if Thomas recalls correctly. Or something like it at least. If he liked him so much from the very beginning, well— _the very beginning_ was mainly Thomas pushing his buttons, seeing just how far he could go.

In retrospect that was very unwise.

But if Richard hadn't been interested he'd've stopped much sooner than he did.

As it was he didn't actually do that til the tables turned and he found himself in need of rescuing.

"I've done that, before," he tells him. "If it helps."

 _That_ gets his interest.

"It does, actually, yeah," he says, and then he's sitting up, too, their legs still tangled. He stops touching him. When he meets his eyes it's with such intensity that _Thomas_ feels self-conscious. "What've you done, then?"

"Well," Thomas says. His mouth is suddenly dry; he wets his lips. "Talked and such."

"You do this often?"

Thomas doesn't much like that tone, nor the smirk on his face.

He should've known this was going to end up making fun of _him..._

"It's been a while," he retorts, "you know I haven't had anybody else in–"

"Thomas," Richard says, taking his hands, squeezing; he is able to shut up. "Thomas."

He looks away. 

"Thomas, this is what I _like._ "

_Breathe._

"By no means am I asking to– to make a joke, or to pull one over on you."

_Breathe._

"All right?" Richard says, and then he touches his shoulder– "hey, love, look at me."

He does.

It takes more coaxing and then some more _discussing,_ which Thomas enjoys much less than just getting on with the bloody sex, but they come to an agreement eventually.

They end up chest-to-back, seated, Richard between his legs and his head falling back on his shoulder, Thomas with one hand on his cock and one at his waist, arm across his torso.

 _Breathe,_ he tells himself, over and over, because he can't seem to get it on his own.

But every time he exhales Richard shudders.

"You act all – all proper and mannerly and polite," Thomas whispers into his ear, "when really you want it all the time." He presses his thumb to the head, feels the pulse of him, moisture budding under his touch. At his touch. "Don't you."

Richard whines.

"Oh, I think you could be a bit more dignified than that."

But he only arches his back, then straightens again, quick, wanting. It really is obscene, Thomas thinks, and he squeezes his thighs around his hips, draws his free hand up to pinch at his nipple. 

" _Ah,_ " Richard says, he is all vowels now, not much else but wordless noises and breathy gasps and sighs, and Thomas kisses the side of his neck. 

"Better."

There really is something nice about doing this this way, about having sex like this — seated, or whatever you'd call this. Richard's practically in his lap. It's got benefits, though: for one thing Thomas's cock is pressed up against his back, even half-hard as he is, and he likes that more than he ever thought he would, and for another, touching Richard this way is almost like touching himself.

He flutters his fingers around him, keeping his thumb in place. It's impressive that he's holding off for so long without Thomas actually preventing anything, but then, that probably isn't going to last much longer.

He did ask, after all. He must need help to control himself eventually.

He goes for the other nipple this time, arm firm against Richard's chest.

 _Doing this this way_ is also, admittedly, very odd.

Not the only thing odd, of course... It's mid-morning for a start. They have done an excellent job thus far of ignoring every convention for this sort of activity and there's no reason to start caring about those things when they've got so little time as it is. For all he knows they're not going to touch until _next_ January, and then what would they have to think about, if they hadn't spent every waking hour now trying every bloody way they can think of?

Richard is very creative. Not that Thomas doesn't have his own moments of wisdom.

In his arms Richard sighs noisily, says something that sounds like it might be "Thomas," but it is slurred and soft and nearly incomprehensible.

"You'll make it back to real words soon enough," he tells him.

Maybe not til after he's come, though, realistically. He'll have to figure out another way for him to beg for it if that's the case.

This is all very new and exciting.

"Or maybe you won't," continues Thomas, and he very slowly begins again to stroke Richard up and down, using his whole hand, the same way this had started, simple, but the sound he makes is wanton and breathy. It's only just quiet enough as not to be worrisome, and Thomas realises that they might have reached the point that would normally have him biting into the bedsheets. "Maybe, Mr Ellis – " and he has to stop for a moment to catch his _own_ breath, because Richard's gone and pressed his hips back, pushing himself into him by digging in with his heels; he's not too far off from grinding and it's slowly, slowly getting him going, "maybe you're just going to keep whinging at me like a bloody – "

"Thomas," Richard says, insistent, coherent this time. He has to wonder what he thought he was going to say. "Thomas, come on – "

"Well, _you're_ not going to be doing that any time soon, are you?"

"Please?"

He is going to do his best to resist that voice.

Thomas draws his lips from his neck down to his shoulder then back up again, stopping at his ear. "No," he says, voice as sultry as he can make it, and – 

They are probably going to need to figure out a way to keep him quiet, aren't they.

"Haven't even started, really," Thomas adds, "you are _impatient,_ Mr Ellis, didn't anybody ever teach you about taking turns," and then he claps his own palm to Richard's mouth; his moan tickles his skin and he becomes startlingly aware again that this is his fucked up hand and he's never put it anywhere near his mouth before (of his own accord, at least) and there's no way in hell that _that's_ going to do anything to keep him turned on, not when he's all on edge like this; he's probably going to lose what little he has of an erection himself at this rate —

But Richard kisses his palm and says, muffled because he's smothering him but luckily at a lower volume of his own accord, too, "for the love of God, Thomas, why'd you _stop_ ," and any chance of his cooling down is swiftly squashed.

He swallows, moves his hand back south again.

"Ask me again," he says.

"Why'd you – ?" Richard starts, confused, and then, " _oh._ "

"Yeah, you're not as clever when you're like this, are you," though Thomas hardly is himself. It's a wonder he's managing this, but really all he needs is to relax and not think so hard about what he's saying. He's always had a sharp tongue, after all.

Never thought it'd be an asset in this fashion again, if he's honest. It's been years. He's mostly used it for visiting peers at Downton Abbey.

Thomas stays still.

"Touch me again," breathes Richard.

 _I am already touching you, you wonderful daft man,_ Thomas thinks, and then he realises he can actually say that and Richard's not going to take it the wrong way because he apparently wants to hear that sort of thing, so he does.

Richard presses forward into his hand, and Thomas loosens his grasp still further. He keeps his touch, but his hand is unmoving and he's not exactly holding him firmly.

Despite how much he wants to.

"Move again," Richard corrects.

"I'm not going to do things just 'cause you tell me to," Thomas says. "Thought that was the whole point of this."

"Please."

Thomas laughs, not to be cruel or unkind but because this is exhilarating and amusing and he's happy, and Richard whines _again_. 

Instinct is serving him well here.

"How'd you even figure this out?" he asks, conversational. "Some bloke just forget to get you off and you realised you liked it?"

"Mmph," says Richard, a sound that must come deep from his throat. He is, Thomas suspects, forcing himself to keep his mouth shut. Wise decision, given he can't seem to keep quiet. If they were _really_ in the middle of nowhere, just the two of them for miles, he'd want to see how loud he could get.

There's a thought he wouldn't have expected to be having.

"Don't know how anyone could neglect you when you're like this."

He doesn't. 

Not unless he's asked for it, at least, which is the situation they're in at the moment.

"But I will do my best," he adds, mock-serious. "For your sake, Mr Ellis."

Not just yet, though — he's sort of uncertain about finding the balance, here, because despite what they're doing now and despite how he asked for it, out loud with _words,_ Richard did also make it clear before that there is a point for him when everything gets ruined, and Thomas would like for them to stay far, far away from it. He is not itching to fuck this up.

Thomas holds Richard's cock in his hand, a warm weight in his palm — he's held plenty before, held _Richard's_ plenty before by now, but not quite like this, when he can't see his face, when he's only got the tension in his shoulders and the bend of his neck to go on, his barely-stifled little noises, the way his thighs and hips shudder when he presses more intently.

"This is fun," he says mildly, rolling the heel of his hand against his groin. "You should've mentioned this sooner."

Richard murmurs, far more coherently than he should be capable of, really, "well, I'm glad my pain is amusing to you," and Thomas stills —

" –Thomas, it was a joke."

"Good?" Thomas asks, hesitant.

"Good pain, yeah."

That's a relief.

"Don't stop," so, naturally he remains perfectly still. If that was what Richard had asked for he would have no complaints, because he is doing a faultless job, not even a tremble.

"You," begins Richard, breathless, and Thomas lets go of his cock to slip his hand under his thigh, and he pushes. Whatever Richard was about to say is caught up in a moan, instead.

Unthinking, Thomas lets go of him with his _right_ hand and reaches beside them to grab a pillow, the former of which does nothing to make him shut up and everything to make him whine through what seem to be very gritted teeth.

"You're so bloody _noisy_ ," he says affectionately, bopping him against the head with it in a way that probably doesn't suit the mood but is amusing all the same, "were you like this in London?"

"You'd remember better than I," strained, and then he takes it from him. Him holding it over his face makes all of this sort of awkward, but it is worth it when Thomas slips his hand underneath him, presses at his taint and then his testes and then wraps his hand around his prick again, and Richard cries out with abandon — muffled as it is it's clear it's everything he's been holding back on for the last however many minutes leaving his throat all at once.

He's fucking beautiful, and Thomas wishes he could see his face.

The pillow goes away for a moment.

"You don't know," says Richard, slowly, breathy, "how much it means to me, that you're willing to do this – "

Thomas nips him on the shoulder.

"You asked."

But he can't stop smiling. He moves his mouth to the nape of Richard's neck and bites, tucks his hand underneath him.

"Didn't have to say yes – _fuck,_ Thomas, oh, my God – oh, Jesus, Mary and – "

_Bloody fucking hell how much do I love you, Richard Ellis, and how much do I love that I can make you say those things._

He's so blasphemous when he's like this. Makes him wonder how he was brought up, but that is not a conversation for the moment, not even close.

Thomas returns to the quick, rough movements, keeps the gentle pressure on his thigh, and soon enough he's almost erect again himself and Richard is _writhing,_ which doesn't help matters at all.

"You want this," he says into his ear, in as low a voice as he can manage. "You asked for this."

A moan.

"And I am being very nice and giving it to you, Mr Ellis, aren't I."

He slows his pace again, draws up and down along his length with light fingertips.

"Because you like taking it so much — I didn't think you would, when I first met you. Didn't think you would be the type." ...this isn't anything he needs to be saying; he tries to transition to a different line of thought… "'Cause I did think of you. Thought about you having me before I knew anything about you but what your name was and what you looked like." 

Maybe not the best time for this admission but it seems to be working to keep him excited so he'll keep doing it for now.

"And while I was lying in bed with – with my fingers inside of myself – " Richard whines again, high pitched, "pretending they were yours, that – that they were your cock, I suppose you were just at the other end of the corridor thinking about the same thing, weren't you?"

It's the thought that that might actually have been the case that really gets him going again.

"You asked me to make you beg, Richard," he whispers into Richard's ear, "and I've done it, I – I've done a lot of things for you, haven't I, and I – I've let you come every time. But maybe now I won't." He pauses, cups his hand underneath Richard's bollocks, unmoving. He is in awe of the way it makes him move, how it makes him tense in his belly and tuck his hips forward. "Because," and he fumbles, _is he really saying these things,_ "'cause I don't have to give you anything, do I? No matter how much you like it. I don't have to touch you at all. Could just let you sit here with your cock hard thinking about my hand or my mouth or my prick."

He squeezes him and lets go.

"It hurts my heart," he tells him, trying to sound mocking. He knows he's capable of it, it's one of his talents, but in this case it's rather _difficult,_ this is a new and very embarrassing thing for him, doing it for somebody he actually _likes,_ somebody who knows him inside and out and will (hopefully) be seeing him again many times over in the future, and he's not entirely sure of how he feels about that, of how Richard will think of him once he's back in London and wherever else he goes, that he is capable of such things.

At least he didn't ask to be called a whore or anything.

He does know his way around that but he doesn't know he'd feel doing it for _Richard._

Luckily, the way Richard is moaning and _moving_ does at least make him feel like he can do this for him, if he tries his best, and he _is_ trying; he's going to see this through. "But since you want it so badly it would be cruel not to – "

A muffled whine.

He gives in, and maybe too soon, from the way Richard was talking earlier, but he wants very badly to make him come, can't entirely manage the feeling that he's in the way of something he _wants to do._

"I can be generous, though. If I like."

Richard is gasping.

"Please," he says, "please be generous – "

Well, he's done with keeping up the act _now._

" _Fuck,_ " says Thomas, "bloody hell, Richard, you don't know what you fucking sound like – "

"Please, Thomas – "

He lays his hand upon his thigh and tugs again, his own legs spread about at their limit to accommodate him, and then he strokes Richard at the underside of his bollocks and holds him at the root, his hair brushing coarse against the side of his fingers. His whole body jerks; Thomas shudders, and the sensation he feels is a mix of discomfort— _what am I doing, why am I treating somebody I love this way, why am I getting off on it_ —and pleasure, and he doesn't know which is going to win out...

"Please," Richard's saying, "please, please…"

"Shhh," Thomas murmurs in his ear, "shhh, I'll let you, I'll let you," and he begins moving his hand up and down his cock and pressing kisses to his neck, little ones, and he hopes it's okay that he can't keep going, he hopes Richard knows that he wanted to do it for him, but it stopped feeling right and now he's just sort of confused, with himself more than anything. All he wants to do is please him, and he would like _very much_ to do it by making him feel small and shy and mortified the way he is if that is what he likes, but something is in his way.

"Please," gasps Richard, "need to – "

Thomas shushes him and tries not to think about how he's going soft, hopes desperately that Richard can't tell he is, because he has to get him off first before anything else and if he notices he might not.

"Oh, Thomas, please, I – "

And again Thomas says "hush." He keeps stroking him, fingers spread at the shaft and his thumb in steady circles at the tip; he's dripping, he's so close and Thomas only has to coax him over, that's all, he can do that.

"Tell me I _can,_ " begs Richard, voice hoarse.

Thomas heightens his pace and presses more kisses at his neck, at his shoulder, at his ear; "you can, darling," he says.

And that's all it takes for him, just three words whispered into his ear and then he's spending himself into Thomas's hand as he strokes him. Richard gives himself over beautifully, and the weight of his head fallen back on his shoulder as he loses himself, the small noises that escape his lips, all of that is part of it and part of him and it's exactly what he hoped to see — and he feels _good,_ knowing that he could do that for him. He holds him until he's soft in his hand and his hips aren't pressing up toward him, when the arch leaves his back, but as he lets go Richard is still panting.

"Oh, Thomas," he breathes, "oh, Thomas, love, thanks, _thank_ you…"

And then nothing.

Thomas uses the back of his hand to stroke him at his thigh and hip, pressing his palm there and feeling his soft skin against his own. Richard gives a contented sigh and murmurs, "gimme… give me a minute."

He does.

It is more than enough time to grab a kerchief and get to cleaning him up—he almost worries he shouldn't be, after he's started, he may have meant not to touch him at all, but Richard just says "thanks" and smiles, and Thomas feels all warm and crinkly inside.

But that's all, for a little while. 

He does not enjoy _more-than-enough-time_ to think about why he got so into talking like he did. He's not the same person as when he was young and Richard is not a person he desires to be unkind to. Not a person he thinks has got things he doesn't deserve, and not a person who's using him for a night to get all his _perversion_ out of the way in one go.

Thomas tries to wrap his arm around him as he lies back down, but as soon as he has Richard slips out and sits up—he does reach down, though, to stroke the side of his head (going against the growthof his hair in a way that has his head feeling fuzzy), then his cheek… then he takes his hand. He's just sat there staring down at him with a fond smile on his face, and Thomas has to look away because it's too much. 

"Let me… let me give you something," Richard says, soft, his thumb rubbing at the back of Thomas's hand. They had that conversation before about him being sweet after, but the way Richard is now is giving him a run for his money. He almost wants to ask if he's okay.

"I don't need anything," Thomas replies.

"But do you _want_ anything?"

"Well, I..."

Not… exactly.

"Only if you like," Richard assures him.

Thomas looks down at their joined hands, at his legs, Richard's, the space on the mattress between them and the linens bunched up at their sides. "I'm not ready," he mumbles. Childish, he should be able to just say it outright, none of the coy rubbish he's fallen into with him, but –

"That leaves us with plenty of options to get you there," says Richard, careful. "But looking at you now I think maybe we ought to wait."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Thomas retorts.

"Only that I want you to be sure."

"Why _do_ you like it?"

"I don't know," Richard says quietly. "But I wish I did."

"How long have you?"

He shrugs.

"Had fun in my youth," he says, carefully placed. "Some men prefer things to be more complicated."

Thomas knew that already. "If they didn't they'd be happy with their wives," he says drily.

Richard laughs, taken aback, and even with the topic of conversation Thomas can't shake the satisfaction of making him do it. "You've got the size of it, then."

"I was young once, too."

"You're not exactly old," Richard tells him, in a gentle, treading carefully sort of way. "And if you were I've had far older, besides."

He is speaking much too innocently for the words coming out of his mouth. Thomas raises his eyebrows. "Have you?"

"I have, yeah," he replies. "When I was younger."

 _Younger,_ not _young._ He's done it on purpose. 

"...that's the thing, isn't it, is most couples like that the younger one's about half the age of you and I." He pauses. "A bit more than half, more likely."

If they keep on this topic much longer Thomas is going to tell him things he'd really rather keep private for as long as possible… No need to give him a reason to think too hard about _age differences._

He doesn't want to know his opinion, on older men, because he doesn't know if he'll like it.

"Nicer being the same age, I think," Thomas says lightly. "Like you and I."

Or close enough, at least.

"It is, yeah," Richard says. At last he lets go of Thomas's hand—he flexes his fingers, curls them up, flexes them again, and then he's got a fistful of counterpane. He rubs the fabric between his thumb and the side of his pointer finger, and Thomas looks on and debates whether or he ought to offer his other hand up.

They've both got two, after all.

Or close to it.

Richard sighs. It's exaggerated. "The differences add up, don't they?"

"Hm?"

"Between lovers," he tells him. "You get too many of 'em and it gets harder to know the score."

"You don't need very many, do you?" Thomas asks. "One big one would do it."

It makes him laugh, again. 

It wasn't exactly a joke, though.

"You may be right, though I think for me it was always sums… class, you mean?"

Thomas nods.

"Yeah, I remember sometimes I'd like somebody—the younger I was the more likely it was somebody I was dressing, actually, you'll know what that's like–"

Yes, he certainly will.

"–you just get drawn in, don't you, and depending on the type they make promises–"

That, too.

"–they've got no intention of keeping, so then you've got that on your mind–"

"'Pack it up and move to France with me', you mean?"

Either they wanted a valet or a kept man, and though Thomas always claimed to only like one of those ideas he can admit that as a lad he spent more than a few nights thinking about the other.

Well, in his head he can. 

Maybe not out loud.

"Yeah." Richard smiles—half wistful and half the way you do when you feel daft but don't want to show it. "Never much appealed to me, I worked in the Royal Household, didn't I, but feeling _wanted…_ that's addicting, that is."

Thomas nods.

"Is it still?" he asks, surprising himself. The thought just came to him as he said it. "Addicting?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd go that far," Richard says. "But I'll not deny I still _like_ to be wanted, yeah. I reckon most blokes do." Thomas bucks up the courage and holds his bloody hand again, and the smile gets broader, brighter; even now it's enough to give him butterflies. "I like to be thought of, to know I'm on somebody's mind."

"You're on my mind," Thomas tells him. "All the time."

"Every night," Richard teases.

"Every day, too."

"Very romantic, Mr Barrow."

For what's got to be the hundredth time at least since they arrived in Corby all they can do is stare at each other with ridiculous grins on their faces.

It used to be so easy, hiding his feelings. But it isn't now. At the moment he's not fond of it, even though he _was_ … earlier in the morning, and all yesterday, and the evening before.

"You still haven't said," Thomas says. It breaks the spell between them. "About the sex."

Richard gives his hand a firm squeeze but to his relief, doesn't let go after.

"Right." All perfunctory again. "It's all related, isn't it? Gets hard to say no sometimes. When you like somebody and you want to keep him around."

"No to…?"

"Well, that was my introduction to such things, Thomas; I didn't come up with the idea on my own."

Thomas raises his eyebrows.

"Was with a man who knew what he wanted from me—all I did was hand it over."

"Somebody you were dressing?"

"Nah, just serving at dinner. Wasn't even the season, just a guest." He looks away, then, toward the lamp, his face unreadable. "Was visiting from the continent, see, and it's more important to keep foreigners happy… well, he was handsome enough for my tastes and that was it."

"That was it."

"Yeah." He pauses. "Terribly handsome, actually. And kind. Service is funny like that, isn't it, you put people on pedestals soon as they say something you like hearing."

"Took a little more than that, for me," says Thomas. "A few nights at least."

"We had a few, actually, me and him, only we spent all of them the same way—don't know what I was thinking on the last one, really, it was always going to be a lost cause, only I thought I'd leave an impression."

"Did you?"

"I might have… mostly he ended up leaving on on me." _It certainly sounds like it, seeing as it's probably about two decades later and it's still on your mind…_ "Besides, I knew if I refused him that'd be it—and there's a chance you're about to fuck up some naval alliance or what have you… anyhow, after that I kept running into it, when they'd have special requests, and like I said before, I never wanted to say _no,_ really, could always come up with consequences for doing so–"

"I don't want you to feel that way about me," Thomas says firmly. "Not ever."

He is lucky he does not have as much experience with the feeling as Richard seems to. He knows that he is; he always heard stories, back in the day. And for somebody who sees as much good in people as Richard does… Thomas never had that problem. He never expected to be taken advantage of, of course—maybe he should have—but he never expected not to be, either. Was wise as a boy, at least where this was concerned (and admittedly maybe that was uncharacteristic of him). He stayed on his toes as much as he could, though it didn't protect him from everything. Couldn't have done. There were plenty of reasons you'd give a 'yes' you weren't sure of...maybe they'd got things on you that would ruin you if you word got out, for example— _things_ like being in the situation in the first place, usually.

He doesn't think about those days much. He always wanted it in one way or another, after all. Just would have been nice to have more say… but that's their lot in life, being servants. Refusing people things is not in the job description and it never was, so there's no use crying about it now. Wasn't their fault they weren't born with silver spoons in their mouths, entitled to everything from everybody.

Doesn't make things better, but it's how it is.

"Well, I've grown up a bit," Richard says slowly. "Don't blame myself so much for giving in all the time, whether I thought it was a good idea or not."

"Why would you blame _yourself?_ " Thomas asks, disbelieving. He squeezes Richard's hand. "What could you've done about it?" 

Richard hums. "Several things come to mind."

God. No wonder he's got problems.

"These people," he starts. "These blokes — were any of them in service? Working people like you and me?"

There is a moment of silence.

Thomas tugs, trying to get him to lie down again—it works.

"No," says Richard.

"You worked for them, you said?"

"Usually, yeah."

"What the hell were you supposed to do but say yes, then?" 

"Well, I never wanted to say no much of the time, was the trouble… I just didn't know what was good for me, Thomas, wasn't til I looked back when I began to think I may have made some mistakes."

 _That_ Thomas can relate to. 

"But yeah, in the moment I thought I knew what I wanted, what would satisfy me… Liked handing over the reins, taking a rest," he says, thoughtful more than rueful. "Nice not to be in the saddle for once."

Him and his mixed metaphors.

"You were a footman," Thomas points out. "You never had the reins in the first place... Doesn't sound like much of a break to me."

"Being a footman's about following the rules."

Thomas is not following his logic here, but he supposes it doesn't matter if he is or not, so long as they can still give each other what they want. He presses a kiss to Richard's collar.

"I don't mean control over _things,_ Thomas," Richard adds, gentle. He pets his hand along Thomas's back. "I mean over me."

"Well, I should think the same thing applies, seeing as _the rules_ say you can't even bloody smile unless…"

But in the middle of his counter argument he realises he gets it.

Maybe too much.

After he falters Richard just says, "yeah." He pauses. His arms are warm around him; Thomas snuggles up close. "There's something appealing to it, to letting go, isn't there."

"I," Thomas says. "Maybe so."

"But, I may have done it with the wrong people. Gave my heart away too quick." He laughs, clipped. "And my body, I suppose."

_Maybe so._

What kind of an answer is that? Either it is or it isn't, it shouldn't be as difficult a question to answer as it is.

"...you can't build a love out of one person taking charge all the time, that's what I think now. Nobody was interested in protecting me the way I thought they were."

"Isn't that what normal people do?"

His father was always in charge, at home. Everybody else he knew, it was the same.

"Was in my house, at least, when Dad was around," answers Richard, nonchalant as anything. He's never said much about his dad and Thomas has got no intention of asking, seeing as then he'd have to talk about his own—there's no reason for him to know about any of that unless it comes up, and if he has a say in it, it won't. "But they do a lot of things wrong, _normal people._ " 

There's something funny about his tone. When Thomas looks up at him to try and figure out what, he's grinning. "...Men like us have better heads on our shoulders."

"Men like _you_ might."

"Thanks," Richard replies, with so serious a face and voice it may be like he'd say it Thomas had just saved his life, or something… save for the sparkle in his eyes. 

_Whoever gave you the right to be as foolish as you are..._

Thomas hoists himself up and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heterophobia squad
> 
> i feel like the sex in this isn't that good, oh well. i've been poking around this thing for like 6 solid months now i just needed to post it haha
> 
> hope you enjoyed anyway <3 as always i very much appreciate comments and kudos, they really do brighten my day even if i don't reply to them- thank you very much for reading!!!

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)!


End file.
